


stealing home

by onceuponamirror



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: (kinda), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, John Hughes never made a baseball movie but if he did, Role Reversal, Slow Burn, southside!betty and northside!jug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-01-22 14:46:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 99,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12484056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamirror/pseuds/onceuponamirror
Summary: This was supposed to be the summer she kept her head down. She had plans, and she just wasn't going to be another repeat headline. Sono distractions,she told herself.Or, there were many roads she could take, but her compass didn't point north.





	1. Chapter 1

_Lightning, this is what you came for_

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**JUNE**

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At first, she almost thinks it’s a gun.

_Crack!_

She hears it again, and she pulls off her helmet in order to crane her ear better to the night air. Hearing it again, however. Betty decides it can’t be a gun. For one, the sound isn’t quite as hollow, and for another, this is the North side of town, land of sunshine smiles and Stepford pancakes, and she's sure any guns on this side of deliverance would be of the hunting variety, and hung over some kind of crackling, ornate fireplace. 

_Crack!_

But there it is again.

Sure the sound is coming from across the field, Betty pushes down her kickstand and swings a leg over her bike, standing as the motorcycle sways into its resting position.

She follows the sharp, rhythmic sparks of little lightning all the way through the parking lot, past the sleepy playground, and onto the grass, freshly mowed and even fresher played.

The earth squishes lightly underneath her feet, still damp from an earlier dousing from the sprinkler, mud seeping upwards and onto the undersides of her boots.

But she keeps walking, passing out from under the gentle glow of the moon and into the harsh, white eye of a floodlight, her shadow growing longer.

_Crack!_

And then she sees the diamond, realizes where the sound is coming from, and from whom.

For reasons she can’t quite name—curiosity and the cat, perhaps—she continues to across the field, deliberately stepping onto home plate with her muddy boots in a mark of riot, and doesn’t stop until she reaches the chain link fence. Her hands mold around it, fingers sliding through the gaps to grip it firmly.

The boy in the batting cage readies his stance again, clearly not aware of Betty’s presence, his wooden bat wiggling in anticipation. The machine releases the ball with a loud _pop!_ and he swings forcefully, sending the ball back, careening into a soft blue wall that muffles what would otherwise be a strong sound.

“Not bad,” she says slowly, and he jumps around, eyes wide.

For a long moment, he just stares at her through the fence, maybe sizing her up. Betty wonders how she looks to him, in her dark jeans, muddy boots, and black leather jacket over a faded baby blue shirt. If she screams _Southside trash;_ if he’s going to ask her to leave, or warn her about omnipresent video cameras.

But he doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, he just furrows his brow. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, from the blue baseball shirt to the black jeans, and she wonders if he’s trying to place her the way she is to him. However, most of his face is shadowed under a big batting helmet, and she can’t quite get a long look at him.

“Wh—” He starts, moving forward, but doesn’t even get halfway through before the machine releases another warning _pop!_ and he has about three seconds to dart out of the path of the incoming ball.

He barely manages it, and the ball slams against the back of the batting cage, the rattling chains echoing loudly between them.

Holding up one finger, he jogs across to the end of the cage, and flips off a switch. The rumbling of the machine cuts off instantly, leaving them with just the song of summer crickets, stretched out, whistling among the nearby wheat fields.

“You can’t sneak up on someone in a batting cage,” he says, now rejoining her at the other side of the fence. His tone is flat, but tinged at the corners, perhaps curious.

“I mean, I didn’t think I could sneak up on anyone in _this_ lighting,” Betty returns dryly, grinning and gesturing to the luminous floodlight behind them. He tips his head back to look at her better, and the white light falls onto his face, the faint sheen of sweat catching the angles of his cheeks.

And with that, she finally recognizes him: he’s one of the boys who hung around with Jason Blossom, one of many his little jock sidekicks.

 _Jughead,_ she thinks, having heard his name thrown around by her sister. Hard to forget a dumb name like that.

She’s seen this particular lackey through the new bedroom window at her dad’s house, the room that he definitely decorated straight from a catalogue, the one she’s avoiding right now, in all it’s suffocatingly pink wallpaper and hopeful pleas that _isn’t it nice, Betty? You can come and stay here whenever you want!_

Her lips twist downwards, and he notices.

“Sorry, can I help you?” He asks finally, forehead creased with thought. He doesn’t say it unkindly, but suspiciously all the same. Figures.

But Betty just leans up closer against the fence, almost out of spite, that ever-present, humming force under her skin wanting her to play with fire.

“What are you doing? School’s out for the summer,” she says in lieu of an answer, almost mockingly singsong. He grimaces, and she exhales, dropping the act. “I mean, seriously, the season’s over, isn’t it?”

“Not for me,” he replies automatically, shaking his head. He looks a bit surprised with himself, as if unsure why he’s answering her question. He exhales, long and slow. “I’ve got…Nationals tryouts next month, club league…it doesn’t end just because the school year is over.”

“Wow, try not to sound so thrilled,” she chirps, shifting so that one arm stretches out overhead as she presses into the fence a little deeper.

She watches his fingers loop around the chain link as he too steps a little closer; he looks annoyed, but maybe more so that he doesn’t want to waste his breath arguing with her. That’s the likelier answer, anyway.

“It’s a better reason than yours, I’m sure. What are you doing out here?” He counters eventually, in an obvious attempt at evasive maneuvering.

“You mean, on the North side?” She asks with a huff, her expression narrowing.

“No,” he says seriously, eyes rolling. “I mean, out on a baseball diamond at midnight.”

Betty almost lies; almost wants to make herself so insufferable that he’ll finally tell her off. But the truth is, she’s not really sure what she’s doing out here herself—avoiding her father and that dumb big house, that much is obvious, but the question of _why_ she didn’t just ride her motorcycle all the way back to her mom’s place is haunting her too.

Even if she knows the answer.

Because she doesn’t exactly want to go there either, to commiserate with her mother’s highly smug soliloquies about how terrible her ex-husband’s life is, to hear the gentle thump of music vibrating from Polly’s room or wonder if it’s worse to have the dead silence that means her sister is not home, because Betty does not know where she goes anymore.

To close her eyes and imagine the college essays she’ll be writing in a few months; to be lain spread eagle on her bed and counting backwards from ten, willing her hands to lay flat against the sheets.

Not that it ever works, because there is rarely a place comfortable enough to unravel. One room too pink, too newly decorated, and too mocking of a life she nearly had; another too loud, too small, and too cramped, always reminding her that she doesn’t fit in there either, both literally and metaphorically.

Most of all, she hates that she doesn’t even quite hate the room at her dad’s—there’s something disarmingly comforting about the warm light, the floral bedspread, the little spots of poesies on the wall, like a room belonging to an American Girl doll she might’ve once longed to brush the hair of.

The pig-tailed little girl she might’ve wished to be, once upon a foolish daydream. But her dad didn’t exactly want her when she _was_ that little girl, so she’s certainly not going to start buying into it now.

Betty has no plans to share any of this, _especially_ not with the exact kind of midnight-haired boy her sister has done nothing but warn her about, but his eyes are dark and blue in the moonlight and tracing upon her curiously, and she finds the words tumbling from her lips anyway.

“This field is halfway between my parents’ houses,” she hears herself say, disliking the resignation in her own voice. “This year, I started coming around here sometimes, when I wanted to avoid both of them. Tonight was some of the same old, and…. I don’t know, I found myself here again.”

He clearly hadn’t been expecting that, but only allows the surprise to linger on his face for a single moment before he’s turning on his heel, reaching for a baseball, bat, and glove.

For a second, she thinks he’s just dismissing her, heading back to the practice she’d interrupted, but then she realizes he’s walking to the little fence door, unlatching the hook, and joining her outside the batting cage.

Jughead draws to stop a few feet in front of her. “Here,” he offers, passing her the end of a baseball bat. “Come on. Let’s hit a couple balls. You’ll feel better.”

“Who says I need to feel better?” She snaps, but despite herself, she takes the bat anyway, playing with the weight of it. It feels present in her hands, a protective weapon, Joan of Arc and her sword.

She looks up at him, finds he’s watching her curiously, waiting for her decision. Betty can’t hold his gaze for very long, her eyes flicking out around the darkness beyond them; little fireflies blink and buzz where the eye of light does not touch them, spots of gold that never quite meet.

Summer always brings a promise, and it’s always so false, and she knows it so well, but she falls for it every time. It’s just such a convincing lie, with its whispers lullabies of once upon a times, of its doors that will take you to the places that do not see you and do not count.

(A place where time doesn’t exist, but maybe defined by the limit of it anyway.)

And tonight, on the second night of the summer, maybe she doesn’t want to be the girl with one foot on each side of the town line.

For once, she doesn’t want to be alone, left to wring her hands about the future. And this person in front of her, he doesn’t have to be Jughead, some golden boy laid upon shoulders; he could just be a boy she will know for one night.

And that boy offered to make her feel better, even if there’s nothing really to heal. She just has to wait it all out. Pass the time away, make a calendar and count it all down.

So…maybe it can’t hurt to physically exorcise a few of her frustrations.

“Okay. But don’t get any funny ideas,” she says finally, though still half-thinking this has got to be some terrible opening to a sports-themed romantic comedy. If he tries to grab her hips to help adjust her _form,_ she swears she’s going to use this baseball bat on _him._

He holds both of his hands up in the air before gesturing her towards the diamond. He takes a spot on the pitcher’s mound, sliding a hand into the baseball mitt.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, and then jogs back towards her as he pulls the helmet from his head, revealing a swooped mess of black curls, luminously shiny under the thumb of the floodlight. “You should be wearing this,” he offers, holding it out.

“Pass. Sorry, I don’t want your sweat all over my head,” she says, eying the thing distastefully and secretly wanting a bit of the danger, even as she knows it’s useless.

“And I don’t want to risk going to the emergency room tonight,” he replies easily, shaking the helmet pointedly. Exhaling noisily, she takes it from him and pulls it over her own head. She was right; it’s damp with sweat, but a little bit of bodily fluid is probably preferable to a hospital bill, so she’ll deal with it.

“Legs further apart,” he advises, pointing at her lower half while walking backwards onto the pitcher’s mound. As she sinks into position, she eyes her rebellious muddy boot print on home plate from earlier, which glares up at her reproachfully, almost as if saying, _then what was the point of stepping on me at all?_

“Relax your knees a bit too,” he adds, and despite her better judgment, follows his advice once again.

“Ready?” He calls, and she nods, the baseball bat practically vibrating in her grip.

Jughead’s leg arches up into position, tight against his stomach, his entire body coiling up like silver wire before releasing in one smooth motion, the ball barreling perfectly towards her.

She swings—and misses.

The ball clatters against the fence behind home plate, and she sighs, trotting over to get it and throw it back. He catches it low to the ground, nodding at her.

They try again; with little warning, he’s already curling himself into the pitch and releasing the ball back towards her. This time she tries a little harder, but feels incredibly foolish when she hits too early. She almost grunts as she stomps over to the ball again, having rolled a few feet off after landing.

“I thought you said this was going to make me feel better,” she calls, as she throws the baseball with all the strength she can muster. It lands forcefully against his glove, and he looks a bit surprised when the mitt closes around it, the loud slapping sound of ball meeting leather echoing against the silence.

“It will,” he says dryly, stepping off the pitcher’s mound, but not moving much closer. “But if it were _easy,_ it wouldn’t.”

“Oh, okay, was it your first time reading _Siddhartha_ this year?” She asks dubiously, and he actually laughs, stepping backwards into position.

“Ready?” He yells, and this time, Betty knows how to bend her knees. She briefly presses the bat against her face, reveling in the feeling of the cool wood grain humming against her skin. She exhales slowly, her hands curling around the handle, almost painfully, the little crescents there protesting the stretch of skin.

He winds up, leg once more cutting into an angle, and then he hurls forward. She watches the ball spin towards her, and even as she closes her eyes, she thinks, _now!_

The resounding _crack!_ is not quite as loud as the ones that drew her to the diamond in the first place, but it echoes through the field all the same. She opens her eyes, watches as Jughead deliberately lets the ball fly over his head—one he surely could’ve caught by simply extending his arm into the air—and then follows the ball’s trajectory, landing with soft thumps in the cut grass.

When he looks back at her, she almost hates that floodlight, because she can see every line on his face, broken back in a full smile as he whoops and hollers in her honor.

The bat clatters to the ground and she feels a grin wrestling across her face.

“This is the part where you run around the bases,” he says teasingly, raising an eyebrow.

“Not doing that,” she says, giving into the grin and leaning her weight against her bat.

“Clearly,” Jughead sighs.

“I will go get the ball, though, because that’s the nice thing to do,” she says, rolling her eyes and taking off the helmet. She passes him on the pitcher’s mound, towards the little white ball visible a few feet beyond, and as she picks it up, spins around in one motion.

“So, was I right?” He asks, with something a little bit smug. “Feel better?”

She doesn’t say anything, partially because she’s just unsure how to respond to that. There’d been a bit of adrenaline in her system just now, for sure, but it certainly wasn’t any kind of answer. In fact, now that the little burst of endorphins have faded out, something about it feels worse. Emptier.

Instead of answering, Betty tosses him back the ball, which he catches easily. His eyes rove over her, still waiting for to speak.

“Yeah,” she says finally, in a somewhat thin voice that she almost thinks he sees right through. She forces a smile, as she's always been good at. “Thanks.”

Slowly, he nods, his own smile fading as he reaches into his pocket to answer a buzzing cell phone. He frowns as he reads whatever message is waiting for him, and then he clicks his phone to black, looking back up at her.

“You being missed?” She asks, guessing that a popular jock like Jughead probably has his slew of early summer ragers to choose from. Even on her way over here, she’d passed a few houses that looked like film locations for the latest _Animal House_ remake.

Jughead exhales. “Not really,” he says, clearing his throat as if he’d like to say something else, but she waits, and he doesn’t.

Perhaps it’s the magic of her anonymity to him, or the cicada’s spell of a warm, early summer night, or perhaps even just the simplest, childish desire to avoid making a decision about which house she wants to sleep in tonight, but Betty isn’t quite ready to leave yet.

And truthfully, though she doesn’t easily admit it to herself, she appreciates the company.

So she silently jerks her head towards the playground across the field, and although he raises his eyebrows, he follows her through the grass, though looks a bit lost for action when she takes a seat on one of the swings and sways in it. He eventually takes the swing next to her, his sneakers sifting into the soft sand below.

“So what are you _really_ doing out here at midnight?” She asks finally, deliberately not looking at him. When she finally does, he’s watching her, his expression closed off. “It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me,” she adds, sighing. “But there’s something nice about dumping your problems anonymously, right?”

“Anonymously?” He repeats, the ghost of a smirk appearing at his lips.

“Yeah, anonymously,” she confirms. “Come on, you don’t know me. What am I going to do with your secrets?”

His gaze shifts over her in clear deliberation. Eventually, he looks away. “I wasn’t lying. I really do have Nationals tryouts next month—I _was_ practicing.”

Betty tilts her head at him, her smile becoming lopsided. “At midnight? On the first weekend of summer?”

Jughead doesn’t say anything at first, but pushes out his legs so that he swings slightly. “Yep,” he says, a beat later. It sounds a bit flimsy, but then again, she can’t really blame him for not wanting to pour his heart out to a stranger.

“Okay,” she says, shrugging. Betty then pulls her feet back and kicks off, building momentum on the swing. It’s a bit thrilling, the wind in her face, chasing after air like she did as a child.

But it’s cool against her skin, and so she pumps her legs, bringing her higher, and closes her eyes.

.

.

.

Eventually, she slows on the swing, her feet once more welded down, dug into the earth. Jughead looks over at her, still lightly swaying in his own seat. “You didn’t jump off,” he says, eying her curiously.

She wrinkles her nose, but smirks despite herself. “Why would I do that?”

He blinks, a bit surprised. “You never used to do that as a kid? Get as high as you could go, and then jump off? My friends and I used to play it as a game to see who could land the farthest away. Felt like…flying.”

Something claws at her chest, bubbling up like acid.

(Only to rich, privileged kids would getting the farthest away be something treated like a game.)

“No, never did that,” she says, blowing out a breath and shaking her head.

“What, never wanted to fly?” He asks, and suddenly, she’s hyperaware of the teasing edge to his voice. She’s many things, but certainly not naïve enough to not realize when a boy is flirting with her, and she’s not quite sure how she feels about it—especially from a boy like Jughead.

She remembers the letterman jacket just barely visible in the corner of in Polly’s room, the door slammed in her face, and the tears, weeks later.

She glances away from him.

“Well, I may have never jumped off a swing, but that’s definitely not flying. But doesn’t sound like I’m missing out. It’s such a human construct, anyway.”

His lips twitch. “What is?”

“Flight. Like, it’s either some emotional response to trauma, or basic human engineering. But they’re both just…force. They’re not real. Just Greek tragedy,” she adds wryly.

“Icarus, party of one,” he supplies, and she nods, allowing a small smile.

“Exactly. Anyway, even birds—” Betty pauses, surprised by the fondness in her own voice. “With birds, it’s the wind, not the wing. Birds just get themselves off the ground, and then they ride the sky the rest of the way. Like, does that even make it count as actual flying? Or is it just navigated gliding?”

He grins. “Deep.”

She laughs. “Shut up,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

Jughead’s expression slowly stills, gray-blue eyes becoming surprisingly hard and observant. “What’s your name?” He asks finally, his tongue digging into the corner of his cheek.

Betty smiles up at the night sky, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face. “Doesn’t matter.”

When she eventually looks back at him, his face is unreadable. Maybe curious, maybe asking for her for more, if she had to guess. She finds it annoys her; she doesn’t want to break the spell of the night by giving it names.

Her voice hardens. “What? Come on, I know how this game goes. What, are you gonna tell me next it’s so cool that I’m not like other girls? I’m so different from all the Northsiders you’re used to?”

Slowly, he shakes his head. “I didn’t say that,” he says, with a touch of amusement, but clearly trying to seem genuine. “Any of that. Seriously,” he adds, sitting upright to offer out his hand. “I’m Jughead.”

“I know,” she replies, eying the hand but not moving towards it, the spell effectively broken. It’s still a little too early for summer haze, and all she’s got left is the reality that it’s nearly one in the morning, she’s hasn’t decided which bed she wants to sleep in, and she’s been pretending this boy isn’t the worst kind of distraction she can’t afford.

She finds herself mad at him. They were having a perfectly nice time being nobodies, and here he goes completely ruining it, reminding her of who he is, or worse, who _she_ is. So rather than shake his hand, she stands, brushing off dirt from her jeans. “I know who you are.”

He almost scoffs, but he’s far too surprised to really classify it as one. He keeps his hand out in the air between them for another hopeful moment before letting it drop into his lap. “And who’s that?”

“You’re a Blossom crony,” Betty sighs, her smile thin. “Small town boy wonder, next in line to be the wistful word in a Bruce Springsteen song. I don’t need to know anything else.”

He fixes her with a long look. “I’m confused—did I say something wrong?”

“No,” she admits begrudgingly, running a smoothing hand over the top of her ponytail. “This night has just run its course.”

She wonders if her sister’s name will precede her, if a reputation by the name of _bad girl Polly Cooper_ has filtered down through Jason’s circle. It has to have; not that Betty cares what any of them think. “No offense, I just know your type.”

“Wow, and you haven’t even asked me if I’m not like other boys yet,” Jughead counters dryly, eyebrows raised, trying to throw her words back at her. It works, and it only makes her feel as frustrated as he’s starting to look. “Maybe you don’t know me.”

“And maybe I’m the plastic bag in the wind,” she replies, in a clipped voice. He’s scrambling to his feet, something dangerously like wait on his lips, she’s walking off backwards, facing him, her arms thrown out beside her. “See? Watch me go.”

She turns forward, but gets only a few feet before she glances back over her shoulder. This is feeling oddly, inexplicably like a _close call._ Certainly not of anything sinister, but she cannot quite place it until she pauses to face him fully once more, as she remembers he’s the exact type of boy she doesn’t want to distract her from her plans, even if he was nice enough.

But for her, the stakes are just too high to risk. 

He’s standing now, one hand wrapped around the chain link swing, backlit by the floodlight, half-transient, artificial, and harsh.

 _Sorry,_ she nearly whispers against the breeze, little tendrils of blonde cutting across her vision as the air picks them up and reframes the loose hair along her face.

She doesn’t feel annoyed anymore, as she stands there in the grass, her boots once more marked with mud. Rather, she feels a shiver she cannot name, her skin pebbling where it’s exposed, a chill despite the warm, early summer night.

Across the field, a firefly blinks.

She walks off towards her bike, her mind made up. And after she mounts it and pulls on her helmet, she spares one last look back at the playground before tearing off into the hushed warm night.

If she noticed him watching her go, she doesn’t admit it.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: [_this is what you came for_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJe8Tub4-_g) by rihanna, _but_ the 80s remix version (just trust me, and click on the link) and _[takin' a cruise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0vsCDSjyKI)_ by sports. lyrics at the top are from the former.
> 
> music continues to be a very large part of my writing process, and as i approached this story and laid out the themes i wanted to explore, i kept coming back to a lot of the cult coming of age stories/i.e. john hughes movies, and so the playlist/music inspo for the fic is inspired by a lot of 80s synth sounds. check them out if you can!! 
> 
> anyway---here we go!! i'm really excited to be starting my next fic, inspired by the lovely jeemyjamz's [instaedits.](https://jeemyjamz.tumblr.com/post/165411545550/jeemyjamz-role-reversal-bughead-insta-edit-pt) this will be following the original both strictly and loosely, as i put my own take on this story of role reversal. check the edits out, but there are vague spoilers for the story if you do! 
> 
> so i was really drawn to this idea because coming off _heart rise above_ , i felt like i'd already really heavily explored a more canon approach to betty and jughead's character cruxes, and didn't want what i wrote next to be redundant or repetitive. 
> 
> but this one inverted their backstories, and i was really excited by the challenge of keeping them ultimately the same people, but reworking their universes and perhaps characteristics or motivations that _initially_ seem completely polar opposite.
> 
> but it's important to me that they remain the betty and jug we know and love, and through this story hopefully that becomes more and more true as they themselves figure out what that means; this is still them, but raised in different worlds, and that's bound to have an effect. 
> 
> (including the joke i make for myself with a bit of fake-deep betty, lmao. but hey! they're teenagers. adolescence is nothing without the drama.)
> 
> tl;dr, this is my take on a coming of age story, and i'm really excited to dig into it. should, hopefully, be a fun ride! also promise it won't be this heavy and emotional _all the time,_ lmao
> 
> please drop me a review and let me know what you thought!! comments mean the world to me.


	2. Chapter 2

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The road already traveled always seems shorter.

That’s what his dad used to say, on those long drives to away games, or especially after the hours spent on the highway, deepening upstate to the secluded, expensive sports camps.

His first year at camp was the hardest. Because to an eight year old, it felt like they’d spent  _years_ spent traveling in the car, his bratty four-year old sister kicking the back of his seat the whole time to her repeated cacophonies of _are we there yet (no), are we there_ yet, _(Jesus, for the last time,_ no, _Jellybean)._

Jughead never wanted to be _there yet._

He didn’t want to go, and didn’t understand why he couldn’t keep going to day camp, like Archie was. It didn’t matter how many times his father explained it was the best, didn’t matter that Jughead had practically begged for permission months before; two weeks felt like a life sentence at that age, and by the time they’d pulled off the highway, tears were streaming down his face.

He was still hiccupping through the end of his crying when they reached the camp. FP had found a secluded spot in the dusty parking lot, cut the engine, and put his hand over the back of Jughead’s seat.

“I wanna go home,” he’d whined.

His father had sighed loudly, with all the strength it took to blow dust off forgotten furniture. “Kid, it’s two weeks; you ain’t getting married. And you wanted to go, remember?”

“I changed my mind,” Jughead whispered. “It’s too far away.”

“Far away, far away!” His sister had echoed gleefully from the backseat.

“It only felt far because you’ve never been here before,” FP had said seriously, ignoring his daughter. “But it was only a couple hours, okay? And I’ll make you a deal, son. If, when I pick you up in two weeks, the drive back doesn’t go by in a blink of an eye, you don’t have to go again next year, okay?”

Jughead had bitten his lip, considering this. And then, after a long couple of minutes, “Okay.”

His father had smiled, and patted his shoulder. “Good. Make me proud.”

And two weeks later, he realized his father was right.

After the initial anguish of the first night—in which Jughead surely wasn’t the only kid sniffling in his bunk—the thrill and freedom of camp settled in, and by the time the end of the session rolled around and his father and sister came to pick him up, it felt like they were in the car for ten minutes before they were back in Riverdale, pulling up the long drive to their house.

Going home is always faster, his father had reminded him. And it continued to feel that way, in all the following years.

But now, as Jughead crosses the field, his sneakers slick with mud and squeaking through the green grass, as he makes his way back across the diamond, dust sticking to the wet soles—as he returns to the batting cage for his duffle bag and shoves his loose belongings into it—as he taps his baseball bat against his shoulder and turns around towards the empty parking lot, he can still hear the faint rumbling of a motorcycle, and it just feels like forever.

.

.

.

He sits in his truck for a moment before turning it on, shaking his head to himself, half-wondering if he’d just hallucinated the girl on the bike. But then—she’d also looked so _familiar,_ and he doesn’t know why, as he cannot remember her for the life of him.

 _Surreal_ was the only word that came to mind. Something imagined in a Gondry film, maybe, or something absurdist, because he was just confused as to where it all went wrong. For a moment, he’d almost thought—

Well, it didn’t matter anymore.

He pulls out of the parking lot, shaking his head once more as he winds away from the field and towards the main strip of town. The road is fairly empty at this hour, Riverdale being a town early to bed and early to rise; the only sign of life is the red glow of the local diner, with a couple of faint souls lingering in the neon windows or laughing in the back of a pickup truck in the parking lot.

He drives on.

When he finally pulls up to his house, it’s completely dark but for the little porch light left on for him. He puts his truck in the garage and trods inside, dropping his duffle bag by the door and clicking off the porch light before heading straight for the kitchen. He opens up the fridge and rummages around, grabbing a container of leftover spaghetti and closing the refrigerator door with his hip.

After grabbing a fork from the drawer, he pads deeper into the house, passing his sister’s open door on the way to his own—and immediately peddling backwards, unsure of what he’s just seen her doing.

His sister sits cross-legged on the floor, bathed in warm yellow from the several strings of fairy lights lining her bedroom, completely surrounded by numerous sets of vinyl records, a portable player, and what seems to be a scattered box of crayons.

Fleetwood Mac gently drifts out of a nearby speaker, and briefly, he stares at the rhythmic turning of the record under the pick before turning to look back at JB and whatever it is she seems to be doing with the crayon.

Her dark hair falls in her face as she leans over a Diana Ross album and he watches as, with her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth, she examines the vinyl up to the light as if reading an x-ray.

He stretches into the frame of her open doorway, exhaling noisily to announce his presence as pries open the lid to the spaghetti to take a bite. “What are you doing still up?”

JB jumps slightly at his voice, blowing her long hair out of her face and quickly re-adjusting her blunt bangs, as if preparing for there to be company. Her expression, however, quickly flattens when she realizes it’s just him.

“Could ask you the same question,” she says, putting down the album and leaning back on her palms. Her voice takes on a faux-angelic sweetness. “Just get home?”

“I was at the batting cages,” he replies after swallowing his food. He shoots her a little sneer. “Practicing.”

“Thought you were gonna go to that party,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs, doing his best not to think of that mysterious flash of green that immediately appears once more in his mind’s eye. He had planned on stopping by, truthfully, but then that _blonde enigma wrapped in leather, wrapped in a glare_ happened.

Instead, he says, “There’ll be more parties. There’s _not,_ however, always more time to get a couple of good swing sessions in before tryouts.”

“Jeez, Jug. You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to relax, just a fraction,” JB says, blowing out an exaggerated breath of air. “Youth is wasted on the young.”

He rolls his eyes, but privately muses that his little sister is far funnier than he’d ever let on. “Wouldn’t hurt _you_ to at least _pretend_ you get the recommended hours of sleep for someone your age,” he counters, raising his eyebrows as he funnels another bite of spaghetti into his mouth.

“Whatever, it’s summer break,” JB insists, looking a bit smug as she says it. “I can stay up however late I want. Dad doesn’t care.”

That, at least, is certainly true.

He exhales. “Well, I care,” he says, though knowing it’s going to fall on deaf ears. But the topic brings up the question he’s been trying not to ask, like an itch he has to scratch. “Speaking of…is Dad—”

JB shakes her head quickly. “He’s out cold.”

Jughead absorbs this with a nod, and flicks his eyes off, away from his sister and her sudden frown. Both Jones siblings seem to find something interesting to do with their attention; he watches her bend her head back down, once more sifting through the massive record collection spread out on the floor.

“What are you doing, anyway?” He asks, gesturing vaguely towards her.

JB runs a finger along the groove of a record by her knee. “Did you watch that show, _The Get Down?_ Well, they showed the trick for record scratching was to use a crayon to line it up with the beat, so you could skip and spin it.” Jughead shoots her a flat, confused look, and she rolls her eyes with impatience. And then, with absolute conviction, she tips her chin up and adds, “I decided I’m going to be a DJ.”

“A DJ?” He repeats dubiously. “I’ve been buying you vinyl for three years so you can start scratching it up?”

“Don’t be such a square, man,” JB mocks, squinting at him, and for the first time, he well and truly realizes his sister is _thirteen_. She throws her long, sleek black hair over her shoulder. “Just be glad my interests are in the music, not the scene.”

He raises his eyebrows, scoffing. “Meaning…what, drugs? Okay, like you’d even know where to get pot.”

JB throws him a look so amused and dubious she almost appears to be pitying him. “I know where to get pot, Jug.”

Jughead straightens against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “You do?”

“Yeah, dumbass, from your ol’ pal Reggie. Everyone knows he deals,” JB replies, like this obvious. And truthfully, it is—he’s never once been exactly subtle about it. Jughead thinks he gets a bit of a thrill from the little side gig, because it’s certainly not about the money.

He pauses, leaning back against the frame. His sister is entitled to her privacy, and now that she’s becoming a teenager, a little bit of experimentation is sure to the come with the package—but he’d be lying if he doesn’t still see her as six years old, and he’s not quite ready to imagine her doing the things he knows he and his friends started doing at her age. “ _Are_ you smoking?”

JB puts down the record she had been inspecting; _Dark Side of the Moon,_ from the looks of it. “No,” she says, sighing. “Not really that interested in exploring mood alterations, at the moment,” she adds meaningfully, her voice dropping slightly.

Jughead nods, knowing full well what she means. “Well, just…no cigarettes,” he hears himself adding, half-hating how parental he sounds but knowing it’s hardly the first time he’s had this tone in his voice.

His sister throws him another patented glare. “Give me a little credit, please.”

He shrugs. “Hey, I don’t know, you’ve got this whole…” He trails off, gesticulating with his fork, moving it in small circles at her. “ _Beatnik_ look taking form—just gotta check it all ends at pure aesthetics.”

“Relax, Jug. I’m still a poser, through and through,” JB jeers, her eyes once more rolling, but he thinks he can see her grinning.

Jughead pushes off from his perch. “Okay. Well, I’m heading to bed, at which point I’m going to pretend you are too,” he says, pointing at her.

“And _I_ will pretend to imply that’s the truth,” JB quips, certainly now smirking at him. He’s just turned to go and pad down the hall to his own room when he hears her call softly after him. “Hey, uh, Jug.”

He returns into the light, and for all his musings on his sister’s coming of age, she suddenly looks very small again, and somehow equally wearing the resignation of someone much older.

“Your turn to take out the recycling,” she says quietly.

Jughead exhales, running his hand through his hair and nodding. “Yeah. Alright. Night, JB,” he says, this time closing her bedroom door shut behind him, leaving the hallway dark and empty and impossibly long, like something out of a Pinterest board run by Morticia Addams, maybe something titled _Decorating Ideas for Liminal Spaces._

He shivers slightly and briefly watches the golden light move under his sister’s door before turning and heading down the hall. This old house often feels too large for just the three of them, but at night, it always feels especially endless, a bit haunted.

He knows the house is practically bucolic compared to the gothic ghoulishness of the Blossom mansion, but as a founding family themselves, the Jones estate was built around the same time, has that same age in the air, same history in the walls, and there are moments where he can’t help but feel his family’s ghosts lingering along the shadows.

There was a time, Jughead knows vaguely, that they’d almost lost this house, when his own father was a boy. Almost lost the whole family business—probably would’ve, if his grandfather hadn’t sucked up his pride and apologized to the Blossoms.

He wonders, sometimes, what would’ve happened if the argument had been allowed to fester, if old man Blossom had followed through on his threats of blacklisting the family and the whole factory. Of course, the Joneses are still inexorably tied to the Blossoms in that way, having fully hitched their wagon onto that red horse from that point on.

Jughead shakes his head to clear the thought. The dead hours of morning are hardly the time to revisit the past. Or, maybe they are—and that’s why he shouldn’t.

Opening his own door at the end of the hall and flicking on his bedroom light, Jughead puts the now empty container of spaghetti down on a nearby bookshelf and scrubs his hand up and down his face.

He rakes his eyes over the room, immediately feeling comforted by the soft glow reflected across all manner of golden little trophies, and suddenly feeling inexplicably and wholly relieved, as if protected under their watchful eye.

He deposits his phone on his bedside table after briefly checking his messages to see one from Archie that contains two extremely blurry photos that speak to a certain level of drunken ruckus and, underneath, a caption that asks _dude where are you_ with about a dozen question marks.

Jughead sighs, and, knowing that his response probably won’t be read till morning, taps out a reply of, **_Got caught up at the batting cages. Hangover breakfast tmrw at Pop’s as usual?_**

He clicks the message away and collapses backwards onto the bed, rotating and stretching his pitching arm in small rhythmic circles overhead.

Certainly without meaning to, his mind wanders back to the blonde girl from earlier, whose familiarity he couldn’t quite shake, with her big green eyes and their frustrating ability to draw him in—and promptly shut him out.

 _You’re a Blossom crony,_ she’d called him.

The words stung, even though technically there was a certain kernel of truth there. He’s known the Blossoms his whole life; theoretically, if he squinted at it, the Jones family is about as close to friends with them as one could probably ever be.

But that doesn’t mean Jughead likes them.

Sure, Cheryl relishes in her self-imposed role as Queen of the Underworld, and she could be cold, brutally blunt, and downright annoying—but once they’d both addressed the elephant in the room named _attempts at a 21st century betrothal,_ she’d at least warmed a bit to him.

He’s fairly certain her parents had been pushing her on him since they were little. On an awful, Shakespearean kind of level, he understood why they did.

Or, the Blossoms are openly Machiavellian enough for him to understand what was in it for them; they’d eventually get the Jones family glass-blowing factory and thus could fully control all the taps of the industry, so to speak.

It made him uncomfortable enough, and he was sure Cheryl had it worse. No wonder she’d hated him. Besides, _he_ wouldn’t want to be stuck with himself, in her shoes, and he got the sense that she was utterly relieved to find out their dislike for one another was mutual, for perhaps more reasons than one.

Jason is a different story.

Again, operating on technically, Jughead is Jason’s friend, if only by proximity.

He pauses, considering that. Acquaintance, maybe.

They all wear letterman jackets, and he’s long suspected Jason enjoys the panache of that elitism, and so coupled with that and their family history, he’s always polite and friendly to Jughead.

But there’s always been something a little faraway in his eyes; a little cold, a little empty. And like his twin sister, he runs icy at a switch, and often with girls in particular.

The way that blonde Southside girl had talked about Jason, about the way she’d made assumptions about Jughead—he can’t help but wonder if she has some kind of personal history there. No one gossips like football players, and he’s heard of Jason’s Southside flings, a couple of which had apparently ended disastrously.

And so, despite the fact that he’s still insulted to have been so openly presumed about— _who does she think she is?_ and _she doesn’t even know him_ —he also doesn’t fully blame her. Half the reason he went to the batting cages in the first place last night was to avoid Jason’s going away party, after all.

But he reminds himself, for about the umpteenth time, it’s _irrelevant,_ and there’s no point in dwelling—in fact, it’s actually for the best that she apparently hated him on sight. It’s been a while since anyone piqued his interest, and it would’ve come at the worst time.

The absolute last thing he needs is anyone diverting his focus, especially right now.

 _This is actually good,_ he tells himself, swinging his legs off the bed and finally pushing the blonde girl from his thoughts. _Ideal, really._

He stands, almost about to dress for bed when he remembers he’s supposed to _take out the recycling,_ as JB likes to put it. He groans, but dutifully pads out of the room and up the stairs towards the master bedroom of the house, his footsteps turning feather light as he nears his destination.

There’s a faint light creeping into sight, but his father often falls asleep with it on, so he doesn’t think much of it.

The door is cracked, just barely ajar, and carefully Jughead pries it further open. He immediately turns towards the nearby bureau where his father usually deposits his empties, but a voice calls out before he can reach it. “Can I help you, son?”

“Dad!” Jughead jumps, completely unprepared for him to still be awake. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were—”

Making a noncommittal noise that’s surely intended to hush him, FP Jones sits upright in bed, leaning over the edge, his feet pressed firmly into the floor. He scrubs a hand down his face, in the way Jughead himself often does.

“I’m right above your sister,” FP mutters drowsily. “Been waking up to what sounds like _Best of Disco_ every other damn hour. If this DJ thing is sticking, I’m gonna have to pay to have her room soundproofed,” he adds, with a wry chuckle.

He turns a bleary eye on his son, it unmistakably jumping from the chest of drawers with the bottle of rum back to Jughead. “When’d you get in?” He asks gruffly, in a tone that clearly says _don’t._

Jughead faces his father fully. “Little bit ago.”

FP cracks a thin, nostalgic kind of smile. “Right, right. House party?”

He shakes his head. “I was at the batting cages,” he says, straightening. “I ended up staying there a while.”

His father raises his eyebrows, but gives a rare, open show of looking impressed, and nods. “Good kid,” he sighs, rubbing his forehead once more. “How’s your average looking?”

“Um, strong,” Jughead says, stepping a little bit forward into the room.

“Well, don’t overdo it, but a little bit of extra practice probably can’t hurt,” FP says approvingly. “Just watch your—”

“Knees, I know, Dad,” Jughead interrupts, having had this conversation enough times to have it memorized. Next would come a grand story about his own days as a _big man on campus,_  and then the shattered ACL, then the shattered dreams, _et al._ His father pauses, and then breaks into a small grin, subconsciously rubbing at his own left knee.

There’s a stillness lain between them, as his father’s eyes steel slightly in the darkness. “It’s late. You should get to bed, kid,” he says finally, and Jughead decides to believe it’s just exhaustion in his voice.

Without anything else to say or do, Jughead nods, and slips away into the quiet, darkened house.

.

.

.

At first, he doesn’t think much of the sound.

The house is old, and things echo; he’s long theorized the floorboards will creak if he just sneezes loud enough. It’s mid-morning now, his sister and father are surely up and moving around. It could be his father getting dressed, or his sister starting up another record.

The second time, however, he actually turns around, squinting at the window where he thought he heard it.

The third time, watching the window, he sees the little pebble fly up against the glass pane, make a light knocking sound, and disappearing. He crosses his room and crawls onto the bed, pushing the window open just in time for another pebble to come soaring up towards him. This one flies just barely over him, missing his forehead by an inch.

“Dude, watch it!” Jughead calls down.

“Get over it, Romeo!” Reggie hollers up. His voice drops an octave, into that thick, machismo style of speaking while grunting. “Breakfast of champions time!”

“We’re going to Pop’s!” Archie yells, pushing Reggie on the shoulder and lightly shoving him aside. “Come on!”

Jughead sighs, taking in the scene. Moose, Reggie, and Archie all stand beneath his window, the former’s Jeep still running in the driveway down the path. “Can’t you guys send a text like any other disenfranchised post-millennial?”

“More romantic this way, buttercup,” Reggie calls, and Moose shoots him a funny grin. “Also, you never fucking check your phone. Come _on,_ I need bacon, like, yesterday.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jughead says, waving a hand at them through the window before disappearing back into his room and pulling off the soft t-shirt he sleeps in and shucking his sweats. He tugs his legs into a pair of black jeans and the faded and worn Red Sox t-shirt JB got him last year, when she’d started exploring her love for vintage. He knows she got it for him partially as a joke, given how much their father loves the Yankees, and sometimes he wonders if that’s why he still wears it now and then.

He slips his phone and wallet into his jeans and closes his bedroom door behind him. “Going to Pop’s!” He yells into the house, but he gets no response, so Jughead shrugs and heads down the hallway, and into the warm morning.

The rest of the guys have already loaded back into Moose’s jeep, and Jughead hops in and buckles up, knocking his hand against the exposed frame to signal they can head out. Moose turns down the long drive, the breeze funneling around the car a balm for the sticky humidity of the season already settling in.

Jughead presses his forehead against the frame of the car, watching the woods blur and curve as they weave down the long road that steals away the oldest houses in town. They pass the gate for Thornhill, the Blossom mansion, but the house is quiet and undisturbed. One certainly would never guess it had hosted half the school in its walls last night.

The last house on the road before it breaks into town is Reggie’s, and Jughead can’t help but notice him slumping in the front seat slightly as they drive by it, as if trying to make himself smaller and unseen.

As they pull onto the main drag, he turns to Archie. “So how was the going away party? Is he all…going away?”

Archie, who had been staring off distractedly at nothing, much like Jughead had been a moment earlier, blinks and looks over. Then a smile curves across his face. “Yeah, I think he’s probably left by now. And it was so good, dude. You should’ve seen it. There were crazy amounts of food, kegs. Jason went all out.”

Reggie twists in his seat to face them. “Yeah, and it was all total top shelf stuff too,” he says, wiggling a crooked finger. “ _And_ all-you-can-eat shrimp. You missed out.”

“Sounds like it,” Jughead says, doing his best to keep the sarcasm out of his tone and still feeling as though he dodged a bullet by not attending, especially with the words of that blonde girl still rattling around in his head, try as he might to dispel them.

_Blossom crony._

.

.

.

The sun is high as they pull into Pop’s, and they manage to find a parking spot by the front, having caught the turnover between breakfast and lunch crowds. They pile into a booth near the door, Moose and Reggie on one side, and Archie and Jughead on the other.

Pop appears a moment later, depositing their waters. He has four menus in hand, but mostly out of show, as if they all haven’t been regulars their whole lives.

“Boys,” he greets genially. “Are we feeling dangerous today, or you all want your usuals?”

They all exchange glances, and then Archie grins. “Usuals, Pop.”

Moose sticks one finger in the air, the other hand rubbing his temple. “Um, but a coffee for me,” he mutters, closing his eyes.

As soon as Pop is out of earshot, Reggie reaches over and ruffles Moose’s hair. “Aw, someone still feeling hungover?” He teases, smirking as Moose shoves him off.

Reggie turns his eyes onto Jughead. “Moose here must’ve had a good night, boys. Barely saw him at all. _Or_ Midge,” he adds, by way of meaningful explanation. Jughead thinks he sees Moose shift in his seat, briefly staring out the window.

“Didn’t know that was still going on,” Jughead says across the table, as Pop returns with three coffees and an orange juice for Archie. Moose sips at it eagerly, and then nods in Jughead’s general direction before putting his head down on his folded arms and closing his eyes once more.

“Speaking of, Juggalo, you are _not_ flaking on the next party,” Reggie says seriously, jabbing a finger at Jughead. “I need your help with Cheryl Blossom, wing man.”

Choking slightly on his coffee, Jughead laughs. “Cheryl? She hates me, remember? In what way can I help you with that? Don’t you have anything easier to solve, like…I don’t know, finding a wormhole? Any impossible math problems I could take a crack at?”

“You’ve known her forever,” Reggie explains. “You gotta have something. She’s leaving for college at the end of the summer, this is my last shot.”

“Man, if it hasn’t happened yet, it’s not going to happen,” Archie inserts, shaking his head.

“I’m with Archie. Let your dream die,” Jughead says.

“Man, why you always gotta be such a downer, Chucklehead?” Reggie sighs, reaching into his water glass and flicking a droplet at Jughead. “I’m just trying to make this a summer we all remember. I want it to be the best one yet.”

He wipes it off his forehead, scowling. “I’m not a downer. I’m…a pragmatist. And you say that every year.”

“It’s true, you do,” Archie chimes in, much to Reggie’s obvious chagrin.

“So I want every summer to be the best one yet,” Reggie says, shrugging. “Big effing deal. Someone’s gotta make sure the four of us have a _good time.”_ He wiggles his brow and winks at Jughead. “I mean, left to _your_ own devices, you’d marry your damn baseball mitt.”

“And it would be a beautiful ceremony, and I’d expect you to be supportive,” Jughead says dryly.

Finally having lifted his head off his arms, Moose snorts as Reggie reaches out and presses one finger against Jughead’s forehead. “That big dumb brain of yours is gonna keep you from getting laid, Pygmalion. You just get all up in your own head,” he says, not unkindly.

And then his voice drops an octave, leaning in closer. “I mean, what if you’re like, trying to get a boner, but then you start thinking about the meaning of life and shit? Doesn’t that…?” He trails off, whistling a meaningful tune that drops lower and lower.

Jughead sighs, but can’t help but smirk at the idea of Reggie discussing metaphysics as a mood killer. “Well, personally I don’t subscribe to it, but some people would argue that procreation _is_ the meaning of life, so it’s actually kind of ironic—” He shields himself from another onslaught of water being flicked in his face.

All four boys chuckle, and Reggie shakes his head, downing the rest of his coffee before his expression stills, like a dog locking onto a squirrel.

He stares off at something for a few moments, his tongue digging into his cheek. And then, finally, leans in quietly over the table, his voice lowering. “Yo, okay. Does anyone else think it’s weird that the Serpents started eating here? I mean, some of them are crazy hot, so whatever, but…since when do snakes cross the tracks?”

Jughead turns around in his seat, gooseflesh inexplicably and suddenly raking over his skin, even though it couldn’t possibly be the blonde Southside girl vaguely lingering in his thoughts.

And yet—alongside a much shorter girl with pink hair, there she stands, right before his eyes, both of them laughing and talking to Pop as he hands them two to-go bags.

He gapes at them; is she a _Serpent?_

She’s just dressed in an oversized jean jacket now, and although she’d been wearing a leather one last night, and it had been plain black. But the girl next to her has a vest on that proudly bears the infamous, gleaming snake patch. It’s yellow eyes glare right back at him.

“I think I know that girl, actually,” Archie says, also having twisted in the booth to get a better look.

Jughead’s head turns embarrassingly fast back to his best friend. “Which one? You do?”

“The blonde one,” Archie says, still squinting over at them. He slurps on the end of his straw thoughtfully. “I think she’s the daughter of that guy who lives next door. She’s not there much, but that’s definitely her.”

“What guy?” Jughead asks distractedly, flicking his eyes back onto his mystery girl. Is that why she looks so vaguely familiar to him?

“I don’t know, I forget his name. He’s the guy who made the noise complaints about my party that one time though, remember?” Archie settles back into his seat, appearing to lose interest in the conversation.

Assuming that if Archie can’t remember his next-door neighbor’s name, he definitely won’t remember his daughter’s, Jughead decides not to press it. He glances back over his shoulder and as if feeling his eyes, she turns around, her loose ponytail swaying.

She pauses, clearly momentarily surprised to see him, and then stares right back at him, her eyes becoming narrowed and appraising.

They move to cast over the rest of his friends, lingering on Moose’s letterman jacket, and the girl looks at Jughead again, this time with one of her eyebrows raised meaningfully.

A smug kind of sneer appears, clearly visible even at a distance, and with that, she turns back around.

He shifts forward in his own seat, his lips twisting downwards, annoyance pulsing like blood in the veins—why did—how does anyone have the ability to be so _judgmental_ from so far away?

Jughead glares at the remains of his coffee, his feathers still feeling unmistakably ruffled. When he finally looks up, Reggie is watching him carefully, displaying a rare moment of studiousness.

“What?” Jughead huffs, feeling his skin flush slightly. Dimly, he hears the tinkling bell of the diner door, and wonders if the girl is leaving.

Reggie leans back against the red vinyl booth, a smile curling slowly across his face. “Nothing,” he says, in a voice that belies that entirely.

Jughead sinks lower in his seat.

.

.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: [holding on](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C08__yI_48U) by the war on drugs, [take care](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N5kKenry2kU) by beach house, and [just another day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVsrNcEgkNk) by oingo boingo. 
> 
> and a little bit of [rock you like a hurricane](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CGfKi6kpdTQ) by the scorpions for betty at the end, lbr. ;) the fleetwood mac song JB is listening to is probably dreams. and i decided to do away with lyrics at the top because the playlist i made for this fic is so much more about sound than the words. 
> 
> one of the questions i asked myself when i sat down to work this story was---well, what does money change? what context does it provide, what does it give and what does it take? not in an edgelord _money doesn't buy you happiness_ kind of way, but, at the same time...what effect would it have on the jones family dynamic? 
> 
> like jughead, FP is still FP. and i know the tone is much heavier than the instaedits for now, but---i promise that's deliberate for a reason. wouldn't be me if i wasn't waxing, though.
> 
> anyway. there are obviously a few changes to this au from canon, but i couldn't just...invert the bughead backstories without working through it and justifying that through plot. so there's a whole history here to unfold. 
> 
> had stupid amounts of fun with reggie and JB here as well. and thanks so much for all of your reviews and comments and support, i'm really happy you guys are enjoying this world. many thanks to the lovely jeemyjamz for making this instaedit and also for letting me talk her damn ear off, i'm sure.
> 
> if you liked this chapter, please let me know with a review. pretty, pretty please.


	3. Chapter 3

 

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Monday starts like the rest.

“You got in late,” her mother says from the stove, cutting the flames off and sliding a pile of eggs onto a plate which she passes to Betty at the little yellow laminate table. Already dressed for work in her black blazer and dark skirt, she sounds reproachful, but there’s something downright pleased in her voice.

Smug might be the best word, Betty decides. As usual. 

“Well, I went for a _late_ ride,” Betty mumbles, staring down at the little pyramid of breakfast in front of her. She pushes the eggs around on her plate.

“And then you came here,” Alice sniffs victoriously, like Betty knew was coming. “That miserable over at that sad sack Sears catalogue of a house?”

Betty closes her eyes for a long moment. “No, I just…by the time I got tired, I was closer to the Southside.”

“You don’t have to go back there, Elizabeth,” Alice says sympathetically, but in a voice that also implies she’s clearly not listening. “This whole arrangement is ridiculous, anyway. He has no interest in you girls for sixteen years and then he suddenly wants to be Father of the Year? Please.”

It’s not that simple and both of them know it, but Alice throws a somewhat challenging eye onto her daughter, daring her to disagree, so Betty just turns her attention back onto her eggs.

“I’ll call Penny today. If you don’t want to go there, we’ll find a legal way around it,” her mother says, something of a wild look growing in her eye.

“No! No, Mom, don’t get Penny involved,” Betty says in a breath, blowing all the air out of her lungs. The last thing they need is that woman anywhere near their business, and besides, this deal was hard enough agreed on between her parents already, she can’t go through arguing around it again.

Her dad wanted her and Polly to live with him permanently, wanted her to transfer to Riverdale High. Her mom refused. Polly was eighteen, and her legally entitled opinion on the matter was clear. Then he wanted Betty for the summer. Alice refused again. He changed tactics. He tried for every other week through the whole year. It was endless.

_(“And how would that work for her education, Hal?”_

_“Education? What education is she even getting in that palace of graffiti?”_

_“Oh, spare me—”)_

It went on and on. And Betty can’t do it again. “We don’t need that. Just…it’s only for the summer, remember? Every other week, three months. We already compromised on this.”

Alice purses her lips and rolls her eyes in the way she does when she can’t find something to disagree with. “You can’t honestly tell me you’re going back there today,” she says, after another studying moment.

Betty punctures the eggs with her fork. “That was the deal.” _Path of least resistance,_ she reminds herself.

Her mother rears up to say what will surely be a scathing review of something her father did that one time six years ago and how she never ever forgot it—when the front door swings open and slams shut a moment later.

Both Betty and Alice look over to see her sister storming through the living room, glory be of leather and blonde. She has the misfortune of having to cross the kitchen to reach her bedroom, and glowers at her mother as she pushes past.

“About time! Where the _hell_ have you been,” Alice snaps after her, her heels clacking against the tile to catch up with her daughter. “Don’t you dare—Polly! Pauline!” There’s a distinct slamming of a door followed by a round of pounding, and Betty seizes her opportunity.

She had left her bag of clothes and essentials at her father’s house, but she takes a moment to grab a few more books from her bedroom before fleeing the house. She has to return these ones to the library before her fines get any higher, and then figures she can kill at least an hour patrolling the new releases section before heading back to the Northside.

The Northside, where the trees are trimmed and the smiles are wide and if the Southside smells like a pine tree air freshener, the North smells like the damn redwoods. Interlude to a Stepford daydream, but safe.

No flashes of long blonde hair before it disappears behind a slammed door. None of her mother’s lectures.

Or, at least, at the very least—at her father’s house, it’s always quiet.

.

.

.

She loves the library.

 _Bookworm,_ that’s what Toni used to tease her what her Serpent nickname was going to be.

 _Worm for short, if you’re not careful,_ Toni would say, nudging her in the side and winking. It turned into the occasional, joking nickname— _Wormy_ —appearing only when Toni was feeling especially impish. Betty never loved it.

It almost feels like a lifetime ago, the two of them pressed up against the bookshelves after school, a smattering of true crime anthologies and comics around Toni’s fish-netted legs, and Betty with her nose deep in Nancy Drew.

The detective duo, they used to call themselves. They’d whispered their plans in the back of this library; when they were older, they decided they would work as private investigators in New York City. Toni would do the forensics, and Betty would do the sleuthing.

In the mean time before they could launch their P.I. office, as kids, they’d used to beg Polly to stage crime scenes for them to solve of increasing elaboration, and she’d been pretty good at it, too—until Polly stopped wanting to hang out with them, when she announced she was officially too old to play pretend and _come on, you don’t really need a babysitter, right? I’ll pick you up later. Don’t tell Mom._

Toni and Betty kept it up for a little while after that, but it was hard to solve mysteries you yourself planned. Eventually, the games turned to books, and their hours together after school were dedicated to the library, the two of them, inseparable.

And then, without realizing it happened, one day it was just Betty.

She remembers the day Toni came to her. It was raining and Betty thought the pitter-patter on the old roof was peaceful, even if there was a bucket in the middle of the floor, catching droplets of water by and by and a less patient person might’ve thought it annoying.

Toni dumped her bag on the library table, shaking her hair out of her face. She’d just started dyeing it pink; Betty had helped her do it, in Toni’s parent’s bathroom, as Toni excitedly whispered her mom _was gonna be so pissed_ and she couldn’t _wait_ to see the look on her face.

(Betty had understood that desire, but not her courage.)

“So…” Toni had started excitedly, a gleam in her amber eye.

Betty had waited expectantly, raising an eyebrow. The bucket across the room continued to ding with every drop of water. “So?”

“So…I think it’s time,” Toni said. “I think we should start initiation.”

She blinked. “Initiation?”

“ _Serpent_ initiation, obviously,” her best friend had said quickly, feverishly, the gleam growing. She had given Betty a little excited shove on the arm. “Let’s ask Polly.”

“Why is it time?” Betty had asked instead, biting her lip and pretending to be very interested in studying the cover of her book. “We’re not even in high school yet. I don’t see the rush.”

Toni had stared at her, the brightness in her eye hissing out of sight, deflating like a lost fuse. “We have to establish our alliances _before_ school starts, Betty,” she said pointedly. Her face had taken a grave turn. “Or we’re gonna get chewed up.”

Betty had stayed silent, her teeth digging into her lip even harder. The rain had seemed suddenly much louder on the roof, even though a moment before it had sounded like it was letting up. Toni tried again, looking mildly worried. “Did Polly tell you anything about her initiation? Jon—I mean, Sweet Pea, said his was really rough. But he’s okay, just a broken rib. But the girls don’t beat each other up too, right?”

“Polly didn’t say anything,” Betty lied, and hoped Toni didn’t see through it. “She did say she’d look out for us though, okay? Keep people off our backs. So, see? There’s no rush.”

But Toni had just looked at her, and her eyes had turned just the slightest bit cold. Or—that wasn’t quite right either. Appraising, maybe. Confused, and trying to play catch up.

Water dripped into the bucket louder than ever. “Do you not want to be a Serpent?” She’d asked quietly.

Betty’s finger had trailed through a line of dust on the table.

Rain had fallen.

And now, Betty comes to the library alone. Toni still swings by occasionally, she still likes to read as much as Betty, she just has less time for it, busy as she is with the Serpents. Toni’s not here today, but Betty didn’t expect her to be.

After checking the hold counter for her name and not seeing anything, she brings herself up to the circulation desk, where a hawkish eye turns upon her. She misses the old librarian, an elderly woman who fit the stereotype of the job in a kindly, comforting way. This one just reminds her of Rita Skeeter from _Harry Potter,_ mulish and watchful.

“Returns,” Betty says, sliding them across the surface. “The drop box is jammed again.”

The librarian curls a lip and accepts the books silently. It’s a clear dismissal and Betty turns on her heel, towards the new releases shelf, her fingers tracing the covers, looking for the books with the soft matte finish. It’s her favorite texture—the smooth groove of a perfect hardback book.

They _call_ it the new releases, anyway. That would be a generous evaluation; mostly it’s the overspill from the branch on the other side of town, duplicates, ripped covers, the like. But they’re new to Betty, so they count.

She gathers up a few of them and returns to the circ desk, sliding her library card across the table. “I also had requested a book I don’t see on hold. Can I check on the status of that?”

The librarian’s fingers fly across the keys, clacking loudly, and then scans Betty’s card. “Cooper, Cooper…” She murmurs to herself, reading the screen. “Ah, here. They already have it ready for you on the Northside branch. So we can transfer it here, but it’ll be another two weeks.”

Betty’s face falls in annoyance. This library may be creaky and dumpy and filled with books that have been out of publication since before the cold war ended, but it’s _her_ library. She spent her whole childhood in here. The Northside branch, all nice and rebuilt, with it’s shiny new fixtures and well-stocked collections, makes it very hard for her to want to be loyal sometimes.

“I’ll just go get it there,” Betty grumbles and the librarian nods, checking out the rest of Betty’s new books. She heads for the exit, hopping down the steps and into the hot, sticky morning. Not that the indoors had offered much respite of it; the library lost it’s A/C years ago.

Her phone rings just as she’s saddled herself onto her bike, and she pulls her helmet back off in order to answer it. She checks the screen first—the last thing she wants is to talk to her mom, but it’s her father, and she figures it’ll be better to rip off the band aid. “Hi Dad,” she sighs.

“Where are you?” He asks without preamble. He sounds annoyed, like he thinks she’s at her mom’s house, and about to demand Alice be put on the phone so he can launch into an argument about parental rights.

“I went to the library,” Betty says calmly. This is, technically, not a lie. “Had to pick up some things at the Southside branch, but they didn’t have them. So now I have to go back to the Northside one.”

“Oh,” her father says, blowing out a breath. “Well, you should’ve just had them sent to the Northside branch in the first place. It’s a much better library, honestly.” He laughs a little at the end, as if he pictures the Southside library to be some kind of dilapidated tin roof building held up by sheer will alone.

“Next time,” she says placatingly. “I’ll be back at the house after I’m done.”

“Okay,” he agrees, much more cheerily. “See you then.”

She hangs up and slides the phone into her leather jacket pocket, trying to smother any annoyance before she starts to drive. Betty tugs her helmet back on, kicks off, and returns to the road.

.

.

.

Her father calls her name questioningly as she comes through the front door, as if it could possibly be anyone else. “It’s me,” she confirms, crossing through the threshold of the large house. Her father sits waiting on the couch with his newspaper, looking painfully Rockwellian.

She deposits her books on the coffee table in front of him, and he eyes them, something like relief on his face that she was, indeed, at the library.

Betty turns on her heel and heads for the stairs and the quiet resplendence waiting for her in the pink bedroom, and only gets about a foot before her father calls out her name. “Betty—could you do me a favor and grab the mail?” He asks, his face once more hidden behind his newspaper.

She’s not sure if she’s amused that he reads his own paper, as if he didn’t himself write it, or if she finds it annoying. But she complies anyway, marching backwards through the house and hopping down the steps. She ties her jean jacket around her waist as she does, revealing her shoulders to the warm June air.

The red mail flag is upright, so she curls the little door open and is just pulling it out when she hears a voice over her shoulder.

“Cooper, huh?”

She turns, thinking the voice sounds familiar, but not quite able to place it until she pivots fully and sees Jughead leaning up against her father’s fence, not miraculously appearing any less good-looking under the afternoon sun.

“How do you know my name?” She asks warily, glaring at him for daring to remain handsome.

He gestures to the mailbox, and Betty follows his line of sight onto the family name engraved onto it. She huffs, continuing with her task of plucking the stack of letters and newspapers from the box. “Are you stalking me now?” She asks, closing the mailbox slot with a clanging.

He raises his eyebrows. “Me? I was at the baseball diamond first. I was at Pop’s first,” he says, with a tongue of amusement. “Math’s not in your favor, if anything.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Then what are you doing _here?”_

Jughead throws a thumb over his shoulder, his eyebrows flat. “My best friend lives yonder. And has for most of his life, and I have been coming over at least once a week for about that same amount of time. Just so we’re clear.”

Betty’s lips twitch, taking in the just-too-casual stance he’s taking against the fence and doing some math. “So, you didn’t just hear my motorcycle coming up the street and pulling into the driveway and then come out to investigate?”

His ears burn, and she wonders if that’s a yes. “No,” he snaps.

She makes a noise of amusement, and he immediately seems further annoyed for it. She intends to leave him there, glowering at nothing, when he calls out once again. “Wait.”

Betty pivots on the bottom step, raising an eyebrow. Jughead pushes off from the fence and crosses over onto her father’s side of it. “Look, I feel like…you might have had an impression about me before you even knew me. And that’s been…bothering me. Can we start over?”

“Why?” She asks it before she even really intends to, and it comes out sounding like more of an accusation than she intends, but he does flinch slightly. “I mean, why does it bother you, what I think?”

He takes a moment. “Maybe because I’d prefer to make my own impressions, or because I’m personally invested in not being a caricature of my own trope,” he explains, sighing.

“Sounds like your vocabulary is doing that work for you,” Betty returns, crossing her arms. “You don’t need me to validate or invalidate that.”

Jughead appears puzzled, and seems unsure what to say, but whatever he might’ve is interrupted by the figure of the boy who lives next door, jogging up to the fence. “Jug, what’re you—oh, hey,” he says suddenly, as he notices Betty. His eyes flick between her and Jughead curiously before landing back on her. “You’re…uh…wait, don’t tell me… Betty, right?”

 _So much for anonymity,_ she thinks, briefly glancing at Jughead, who looks on the precipice of what might be a grin. She tucks her arms tighter around herself and nods. “Yeah. Hi.”

“Archie,” he returns in introduction, and his hand shifts, as if he’s about to offer it to shake, but then seems to think better of it after eying her crossed arms. “Andrews. I live next door. This is Jughead.”

Betty can’t help the small smirk. “We’ve met.”

Archie’s eyebrows raise and he glances at Jughead again, who shoots her an odd look, before turning back to Betty. “Oh, cool. It’s been a while. You have a sister too, right?”

The smile falls off her face. “Polly Cooper,” she says, recrossing her arms, her chin jutting out. Archie’s tone was friendly, and she knows it’s likely it wasn’t a deliberate jab, but it’s enough to remind her who she’s talking to. “I’m sure your friend Jason has told you _all_ about her.”

Jughead and Archie both look taken aback, and exchange long looks. Jughead opens his mouth, but she’s not interested in sticking around for excuses for a person she doesn’t ever hope to meet. “I should get back inside. Nice to meet you again, or whatever,” she adds, spinning around and marching back up towards the front door and disappearing behind it.

“Hey kiddo,” comes her father’s floating voice as she closes and locks the door behind her. She probably doesn’t even need to deadbolt it, but it’s out of habit, and probably wouldn’t be something so automatic if she’d grown up in this big, safe, neighborhood-watch-approved house. Her father looks up as she passes into the room. “That took a while. You fall in?”

She stifles a sigh. It’s like he’s trying to catch up for sixteen years worth of dad humor in one summer. “Just was talking to—uh, your neighbors,” she explains, depositing the stack of mail onto the kitchen table.

Her father absorbs this with poorly concealed interest; she has a sinking feeling he might be already planning his matchmaking, Mr. Suburban Yenta, on the lookout for a good beau to rub off on his troubled daughter. “The Andrews? You know, Fred has a boy your age. Hey, I think you went to a couple of his birthday parties, right?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Betty says, surprised to be reminded; she traces back in time for a memory, and the one of Jughead bubbles up against her stomach. She had forgotten that summer’s day when they were seven, when she’d taken part in a food fight and sat at the long table next to Jughead and he’d swiped a curl of frosting off her face and it was the first time she remembers blushing over a boy.

It’s a stupid memory.

“Okay, I’m going upstairs,” she adds, unwilling to let that play out. She makes to leave, but her father is faster.

“Betty,” he says seriously, and she backpedals into the room, biting down on her lip. “Look, the deal wasn’t that you’d just come here for a week at a time and never leave your room. I don’t want this to be like it was before. I want this time to be different.”

She counts her breaths.

Her father does not notice. “What are you doing later today? Are you hungry for lunch? We could see a movie?”

“I have work,” she says dully, and immediately feels terrible about it as her father’s face falls. Even though it’s the truth, she does have work, she can’t quite stamp out the guilt about her shortness with him. She practically can hear Toni screaming in her ears that she has to _get mad_ and _stay mad._

But he’s just trying _so hard,_ she can’t help but feel a bit bad for him.

“Okay,” her father says slowly. “Well, how about I drive you?”

“I was just going to take my bike as usual,” Betty sighs. “It’s easier.”

Hal’s mouth twists into a frown at the mention of the motorcycle, which is no secret he disapproves of. It was one of the few things Betty thought her parents might’ve actually agreed on, but the fact that they _did_ meant one of them had to find a reason to disagree. Alice had found justification for the bike when Polly first got hers, and that was that.

On the couch, her father leans forward and presses his elbows into his knees. “About that,” he starts, and Betty inhales sharply. “I had an idea for a compromise. I have this old Volvo I got as a project—my father and I used to fix up cars together. I’ve seen your report card, Betty, I know you’re good at shop. I was thinking that we could fix up this car, and then, at the end of it, you could have it.”

“Could…have it?” Betty repeats dumbly, surprised by the offer, and perhaps even more surprised that her instinct isn’t to immediately turn it down. “A car?”

“A whole car,” her father says, taking her reaction as a good sign. “I figure, you might need it to help you move for college, and then for getting around. A motorcycle can’t be great in the winter.”

At the mention of college, Betty raises an eyebrow. It’s the first time that her father has mentioned it to her specifically, but she knows that was the whole point of him stepping in when he did. Polly dropped out of high school, Betty was going to finish it. She was _going_ to go to college.

She’d overheard him shouting that at her mother enough times to know he meant it. And for all his presumptions—that was the one she’d hoped was right, especially if it meant he was going to help pay for it.

“Okay,” she says finally, nodding. “That sounds…nice, actually. Thank you.”

“Great,” her father says, beaming at her. “So I’ll drive you to work, okay? Come grab me when you need to go.”

And Betty realizes it was something of a trap, and that it was an offer with strings. But her father is already returning to his own paper, ending the conversation; frustrated, Betty decides to take it as her opportunity to, at last, head upstairs and flop onto the bed in the pink room.

She intends to nap, and sets an alarm for an hour before work, but she lies there for a long while, splayed on her back and staring at the ceiling, a little ticking in her heart mimicked on louder by the clock on the nightstand.

Her mind eventually drifts back to Jughead, and doesn’t know what to make of that. She wishes he hadn’t kept up any persistence, hadn’t asked to start over. She wishes he wasn’t so attractive; wishes the little black curl on his forehead didn’t drift across his eyes so that she didn’t once wish to push it back.

Grumbling, she rolls over to her other side, away from the window that faces Archie Andrews’ bedroom, just in case both boys have also gone upstairs.

She stares at the pink wallpaper until her eyes blur, and then they shut, relishing in the stillness.

.

.

.

Toni visits her at work at the roller rink, dead quiet for a Monday evening, as is typical.

They have a couple of planned parties for the rest of the week, but ever since the laser tag place went up on the Northside, business has definitely died down.

Unhelped by the fact that they have two out of order bathroom stalls, have had at least a dozen pairs of shoes stolen over the last decade that haven’t ever been replaced, and there was the time she was told not to come into work because her manager had been arrested—Betty is expecting to lose her job any day now, just waiting for the call that it’s going out of business.

But that day hasn’t come yet, and selfishly, Betty likes it when it’s slow, because she can work on her homework or read. Today, however, Toni materializes at the counter, tapping lightly on the laminate to make her presence known.

Betty has just started opening up the cash register to count the door; all employees must count the cash at the start and end of each shift under the watchful eye of a video camera, the rink having had some bad luck with sticky fingers in the past. She thinks most employees wouldn’t be allowed to have their friends behind the counter, but Betty’s been working at the rink for three years now, and her boss trusts her, so she lifts up the counter bar for Toni, and she slips through it.

“Came to say hi,” she says, sliding onto one of the stools and pushing a pair of skates forward slightly with one finger. “You know, I’ve barely seen you since the pod people took you.”

Betty throws her an amused look. “We went to Pop’s, like, yesterday. And I’m not under house arrest, I can still leave the house. I just wanted to lay low after finals and catch my breath.”

“Uh huh,” Toni murmurs, but grins fondly, both of them remembering how hard Betty had tried to get Toni to study with her. Not that it’d really worked; eventually Toni had mumbled something about not seeing the point and Betty hadn’t known what to say to that and dropped it.

Toni catches her up on the weekend’s drama—a new Serpent recruit briefly lost Hot Dog for a couple of hours in Fox Forest and had paid the price for it, there had been a house party to ring in the new summer, there was a dumb bar fight. None of it particularly made Betty feel like she missed anything, but it feels nice to get a moment in with her best friend regardless.

When she’s done with her stories, she pauses slightly, swiveling on her stool and watching Betty carefully. “Can you cut out a little early today? It’s so dead here, and Sweet Pea and Fangs and I are going down to the quarry later. You could come with—I’m already bored of hanging out with just dick.”

“Sorry, but I need the hours,” Betty reminds her, even though they’ve played this game before; Toni always asks if Betty can hang out earlier than she gets off, Betty always declines. She returns to mouthing along with her counting of bills.

“Yeah, but the boys came up with a new game of dropping different sized objects into the old unfilled part of the quarry to see what happens,” Toni says with a snort, and Betty looks over, both their mouths curling in twin amusement. “They’ve got a bet to settle tonight about a watermelon versus a bowling pin.”

“They need to stop sleeping through science class. I take it you didn’t want to tell them about Newton’s first law?” Betty grins, now stacking her pile of one-dollar bills neatly.

“I just didn’t have the heart,” Toni says seriously. Betty throws her a dubious look, and the pink-haired girl grins impishly. “I mean, _yeah,_ though. It’s also funny.”

“There it is,” Betty murmurs, closing up the cash register.

“So…you’ll come?”

Betty bites her lip. “Even if I could, which I _can’t,_ Toni…isn’t it still a little weird?”

Toni pretends to look confused. “What, with Sweet Pea? No, he’s totally over it, trust me.” At Betty’s look, Toni huffs and adds, “Okay, I mean, maybe…the nickname isn’t totally ironic. He is sensitive. But he also gets it, Coop. Your whole thing.”

“My thing?” Betty repeats, closing up the cash register and marking the till as open. There’s something in Toni’s voice that gives her pause, and she looks over, an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah,” she sighs, though looking a bit like she regrets saying it. “I mean, you won’t join the Serpents, you won’t date, you won’t develop peripheral vision…”

Betty blows out a noisy breath, now looking over. “Thank you, for that.”

Toni shrugs, her eyes bulging in faux annoyance. “What? It’s true. You have the market cornered on horse blinders. Not like it matters for Sweet Pea, you two would’ve made absolutely zero sense together. He’ll come to his senses and realize that soon enough. He has to realize he and Fangs are in love first, but. You know the drill.”

“I hope so. I just don’t want things to be awkward,” Betty says slowly, rolling her shoulders.

Toni’s eyes threaten to roll. “Relax. I’ll knock said senses into him, if you think he’s still being weird. Fair?”

“Fair,” Betty agrees, relieved. She turns to face her friend fully. “I’m working till eight, but I could hang after I close. Probably too late for the quarry, though.”

Toni hops off the stool, sighing with resignation. She shoulders her bag on. “Yeah, yeah. Whyte Wyrm, then?”

“Yep,” Betty chirps, waving as Toni gives her a goodbye salute and sarcastically promises she’ll send photos of the results for the quarry experiment.

Without homework to do, the hours drag on. Betty’s book is escapist enough, finally getting around to reading the work of Elena Ferrante, but _My Brilliant Friend_ has something of an uncanny valley feel to it, and she can’t get very far into the novel without needing to put it down, afraid for where the rest of the story will take these two childhood friends.

So she plays Scrabble on her phone for a solid hour before the first customers of the evening come in, and then for a while Betty can distract herself with watching the radiating purple and red lights passing over the teenage couple skating hand-in-hand, endlessly going in circles.

For a long moment, Betty feels like time doesn’t exist; it could be 2017, it could be 1977. Neon red flashes onto the floor, and then back to purple, and red again. Rhythmically, hypnotically, she stares at the disco ball as it spins in place, the little flecks of light moving across her eyes, trance-like, and she wishes she could stay out of time forever.

And the minute she realizes the moment cannot last, that it has to eventually break—it does.

.

.

.

Later, after the young couple leaves, the roller rink remains empty until close. Quietly, Betty recounts the cash drawer and wipes down the counter, sprays off the used shoes, and then sweeps across the hardwood floor. The closing process is nearly as metrical as the alternating neon lights, nearly as numeric as counting beats in a disco song, but not nearly as joyful. Rather, it just feels uncomfortably like going through the motions.

After she finishes, flicks off all the lights, and locks up the big glass entryway doors, Betty makes the half-hour walk over to the Whyte Wyrm. She shoots Toni a text saying she’s on her way, to which she receives a photo of a geared up pool table in response.

Grinning, Betty picks up her pace. A game of pool sounds perfect after the seemingly endless and trying day she’s had, and as she reaches the Wyrm, waving to the bouncer as he ushers her in, the familiarity of the bar greets her like an old friend. The lingering mustiness, the dust swirling under the warm yellow lights, the clacking of pool balls hitting against one another—it’s almost comforting, to intimately know a place that doesn’t ever change.

And yet—and yet—

She’s not sure. Toni spots her, waving her over to the reserved pool table, and the thread loosens in Betty’s mind.

Maybe it’s just the long day of feeling tugged back and forth, maybe it’s her mother’s high-pitched laugh whenever she mentions her father alone in his white-picket-castle, maybe it’s her father’s derisive snorts when he describes Southside High—maybe it’s only been a few days into the summer and Betty already has a headache, split between her fighting parents—maybe it’s the monotony of her job, but something nags at her, even as she tries to distract herself with a game of pool.

Betty stands up straight, leaning up against her pool cue. “Do you ever think…I don’t know, don’t you ever get bored of this?”

Toni finishes up her own shot, watching the red striped ball bounce around the table, and then settles onto her elbows, raising an eyebrow at Betty. “Meaning?”

“We go to work or school, we go for rides, or we go to the quarry, or you guys go do your Serpent stuff, and then we come here. And then we go home, and it all starts over again. Don’t you ever want to do something else?”

Giving her a sidelong look, Toni considers this. “Okay,” she says, shrugging. A devilish smile tips at her mouth. “Word is there’s a big Northsider party tonight. We could crash it.”

She blanches, and immediately regrets it. Toni stares at her. “What? You said you wanted to do something different.”

Thinking of Jughead and the joke he’d made about running into one another, she’s not sure she can handle the smirking reaction her presence would probably receive. “Yeah, different like…go to a movie. Not hang out with jerky jocks,” Betty says, lining up her shot and deliberately keeping her eyes on her mark.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Toni says, with a bit of a whine. “We can just trash the place and ditch, if you just wanna get in and out. Or I can trash it and you can watch,” she adds, when Betty glances up at her skeptically. When Betty doesn’t say anything else, Toni looks frustrated. “ _Kidding,_ I’m obviously kidding. But…would it be such a bad thing? You know, sometimes I don’t get you, Betty. Don’t you want a little revenge for what they did to Polly?”

“That was one person,” Betty says without thinking.

“Since when?” Toni looks scandalized, throwing her that look Betty hates, the one where she appears to not recognize her. “As far as I’m concerned, it was a team fucking effort, the way they treated her. Fuck them all.”

“I just meant—” But Betty doesn’t really know what she meant. Doesn’t really know where it came from in the first place, so she trails off, doing her best not to ruminate on that. “Yeah, you’re right,” she says instead, and Toni appears mollified.

“So let’s go,” she chirps, throwing down her pool cue onto the table. And without any other reason to protest, Betty follows her out of the bar and towards the queue of parked motorcycles. Toni glances around. “Where’s your bike?”

Betty rolls her eyes. “I walked here from work; my dad insisted on driving me. You can just give me a ride back, right?”

“’Course,” Toni says, offering Betty her spare helmet. Betty saddles down around Toni’s little pink motorcycle and wraps her arms around her for security, and after one last check of directions on her phone, Toni tears off towards the other side of town.

As the wind whips around her face and shoulders, she realizes it’s been a long time since she herself was on the back of a bike—not since she got her own, surely.

But she remembers when Polly first got her own, how she’d take Betty to school and pick her up from work; she remembers her sister’s long blonde hair rippling against the wind, the exposed ends flying like unspooled silk threads, the sky so blue beyond it, the sense of _freedom,_ the smell of the road, the secret wish that her sister might just keep driving and not ever stop, not until they were both far, far away and happily ever after.

She doesn’t feel that now.

Toni eventually pulls up to a rather fancy looking stone building near the downtown, and throws Betty a sneer after she takes it in. “God, can you believe how some people live?” She laughs, dismounting and stashing her helmet away. “Better be some good liquor, that’s all I’m saying.”

Stifling a comment about _drinking_ and _driving_ because Betty knows Toni may be a lot of things, but a survivor is one of them, and she’d never do anything to put herself in danger, so Betty laughs, because it’s true.

The steps up to the building are littered with people their age, but clearly from Riverdale High, and a couple of them throw them a spare dirty look or two, but for the most part, few people seem to care, and no one tries to stop them from entering.

Betty feels as though she’s walked into a movie—the interior of the building is glittering and silver and ornate to the point that Betty didn’t even think was possible in a small town like Riverdale, shining like the palace of a modern princess.

“Are we having breakfast at Tiffany’s too?” Betty mutters, holding onto Toni’s hand as she guides Betty through the lobby. The building appears to be an apartment, they share an elevator with a glasses-wearing Northsider who gives them both a long, cursory up and down.

“Take a picture or move on, poindexter,” Toni says coolly, rolling her eyes towards Betty and shaking her head.

The elevator door dings open, greeting them to an equally luxurious apartment that’s filled to the brim with teenage hedonism.

Or at least, that’s how it appears at first glance—there’s a keg stand happening in the kitchen, an impromptu dance floor snaked across the living room, and bodies, a seemingly endless supply of bodies, all moving up against each other, writhing, shaking, lost in the fray.

 _“Damn,”_ Toni whistles, taking it all in. Her voice has risen a couple octaves against the music. “Alright, Northsiders know how to party, I’ll give them that. Must be all the JJ they’re buying up,” she adds, snorting.

And it’s true—the dazed, foggy look in a couple of eyes that Betty can see looks something a bit beyond basic inebriation, the handiwork of more than just beer.

“Now what?” Betty calls, having to practically shout to be heard over the thumping base.

“What?” Toni yells back, as they attempt to shimmy through the crowd and towards the kitchen.

“I said, now what?” She tries again, and the kitchen offers a bit of respite towards the sound, but not comparatively much.

“I need to find a bathroom,” Toni says, craning her neck around. “Get a drink, make a few enemies, break a few hearts. I’ll come find you, okay?”

“We just got here, can you not disappear immediately?” She can’t help the whine in her voice, but Toni has a habit of turning ten-minute moments into hour-long vanishings, and she doesn’t want to be left alone in some fancy Northsider party.

Toni smiles, and reaches forward to squeeze Betty’s arm. “I gotta pee, babe. I’ll be back before you know it,” she says, and waits for Betty’s nod before evaporating back through the crowd.

And then Betty is alone, her hands wringing in circles in the kitchen next to the keg, and unsure what to do with herself. Eventually, she decides a little bit of beer won’t hurt, she’s not the one driving, finds a clean red solo cup, and pumps herself a drink.

The moment appears to be moving at different speeds for everyone she crosses on her path; there are a couple of boys who look like they’ve never experienced the passage of time, sitting completely still and staring at the wall, clearly zonked out on something vaguely hallucinogenic, there are some girls spinning madly on the dance floor, others chanting on a game of beer pong.

Someone brushes against Betty just hard enough that her drink sloshes around and spills a bit down her shirt, and she groans, zipping up her black leather jacket in order to hide the stain rather than trying to wipe it off.

Betty flattens herself against an unoccupied wall, surveying the room for someone she recognizes, even if that could only be one of three people. Toni remains nowhere to be seen, but frankly she’s so short that Betty doesn’t expect to see her unless she does something like climb on top of a chair to look for her.

She thinks she can make out the distant red hair of Archie Andrews from across the apartment, but she’s not completely sure. If it is Archie, there’s a head of black hair with him, but it seems to belong to someone too broad-shouldered to be Jughead.

Not that she’s looking for him. In fact, if she doesn’t see him—ever again, really—she’ll be just fine.

Her mood souring slightly, Betty pulls her phone from her pocket to see if Toni has sent her any texts, but there’s nothing except but a reminder that her father expects her home around midnight. _Cinderella at the rager_ , Betty thinks with a sigh, shoving the phone back into her jacket.

After what feels like an eternity people-watching and scanning for her best friend from her secluded spot against the wall, Betty slithers off, her lips trimming the edge of her solo cup to keep it close and safe from someone else knocking into her. She tries the first door handle she comes across, a sense of relief washing over her as she realizes it’s unlocked. She jiggles it and disappears behind the door, the sounds and music of the party instantly muffling.

She presses herself smoothly against the other side of the door, closing her eyes and letting out a breath. When her eyes finally open, she realizes she’s in some kind of den, or maybe a study. High, vaulted bookshelves line the walls, a painting of a beautiful girl about Betty’s age, an architect’s drafting table sits in the corner of the room.

All in all, while nothing glaringly suspicious jumps out at her, something about the room feels pulled straight out of a mid-century thriller, that if she tugged on the right book on the shelf, a trap door would open and reveal a secret lair.

Even though she knows this isn’t one of her Nancy Drew novels, Betty can’t quite slate her curiosity, so she moves through the room up against one of the shelves, running her fingers along a few of the spines and staring at them musingly.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Betty jumps back from the bookshelf, and looks over her shoulder to see a dark-haired girl draped against the doorway, a simple red solo cup held in her hands with all the grace of a champagne flute. She grins wryly, and Betty realizes it’s the same girl from the painting. “You look like you’re having fun.”

The girl has on a set of pearls that probably cost more than the junky Volvo her dad is giving her, but flashes a kind smile all the same, surprising for a girl who screams _money._ She looks at Betty for another long moment before pushing off out of the doorway and crossing the room towards the large oak desk.

“This room is off limits,” she says, as she rifles through a drawer and pulls out a deck of playing cards.

Betty’s shoulders tense. “To me specifically as a Southsider, or in general?”

The girl looks up, blinking in confusion. “What? No, not that I know what that even means. It’s just—no one is allowed in my father’s study. I only came in here to get the stack of cards I know Daddy has.”

“Oh,” Betty says quietly.

“I’m still new to town,” the girl adds, in something of a winded voice that might imply she’s said this a few times now. “I threw this party to establish that. So forgive me if I’m behind on the established and unspoken social hierarchies at play, or especially if I choose to disregard them. I follow my own rules, thank you very much.”

Betty feels a smile worm across her face. “That’s…refreshing,” she admits, and it’s true; especially so after the long day of tug-of-war she’s been playing.

The girl appears to like that, one of her manicured hands pressing gently against her collarbone. “Of all the things I’ve been considered in my notably young life, _a breath of fresh air_ was not yet one of them. Happy to have crossed that off my list.” She pauses, eying Betty from across the room. “You know, as hostess, it _is_ my sworn duty to make sure my guests are having a good time,” she adds pointedly.

“Your apartment is really nice,” Betty says in lieu of any real answer, hoping enough banal small talk will be enough to scare the girl off.

“It is,” the girl agrees. “It’s also not built to host half a high school, so quite at capacity. I can appreciate seeking a little quiet. Outsider begets outsider,” she adds after after another studying moment, in a lowered, secretive kind of voice. She then flashes Betty a smaller smile, something a bit more approving.

She makes a path as Betty brushes past her and back into the hallway. “Love your jacket, by the way. _So_ Cherie Currie,” she says, locking the door with a little key she slips down her shirt to stash in her bra. She then turns fully, offering Betty her hand. “I’m Veronica.”

And just like before, with Archie across the fence, Betty debates whether to shake it. But there’s something kind in the girl’s face, something that feels genuine, despite what appearance and history may have told her.

So she takes the hand offered to her. “Betty,” she returns, and is surprised when Veronica quickly takes it as an invitation to slip her arm through Betty’s own and lead her down the hallway, away from the mysterious study.

Up close, Betty now realizes Veronica might be a little drunk, because she sways slightly in a formidable pair of heels, and it might explain a bit of the forwardness.

“We’ve decided to play a little game of backroom poker,” Veronica announces, using her free hand to shake the cards, a shiny silver bracelet jingling on her wrist. “And correct me if I’m wildly off base, but you seem like a girl in desperate need of a little respectable socialization, not the chaos pit forming in my living room. Want in?”

Besides the fact that Veronica has looped their arms together as if they’ve known each other a decade, it sounds more like a statement than a question, confirmed by the expectant smile thrown Betty’s way.

“I would,” Betty says, as her head swivels around the room for Toni. “But I’m looking for my friend. I didn’t think there were this many places to hide in an apartment.”

Veronica guides them through a throng of people, including Archie and a couple of his jock friends, who appears incredibly taken aback to see Betty, _especially_ given the person who has attached herself to her hip.

Archie’s eyes quickly jump to Veronica, and Betty glances back to confirm his gaze following them as they slip through the crowd. Betty figures that if she were to run into Jughead, that would’ve been the moment—in fact, she hasn’t seen him at all yet, and it’s beginning to seem like she won’t.

And it’s relief she feels. Certainly. That would be the last thing she needs. 

“Would your friend happen to be the glowery pink-haired grunge shrine I saw stalking around?” Veronica asks, bringing Betty back into the moment. “Sorry, I think she found a Sid to her Nancy and fled the coop.”

Betty tries to stifle a frown. “Seriously? She was my ride home. Who is the Sid in question?”

“Someone appropriately vicious,” she says in a voice that is somehow equally cryptic and equally airy, and before Betty can ask her to elaborate, Veronica is flinging open a door to a bedroom filled with a few scattered souls.

A boy she distinctly recognizes as the sheriff’s son looks surprised to see her, but to Betty’s own matching shock, doesn’t appear particularly affronted, and when Veronica leads the two of them over to the couch where he’s sitting, he even scoots over to make room.

“Everyone, this is Betty, she’s amazing, I’ve kidnapped her and forced her to play with us,” Veronica says in a clear voice that belies the tremulous way she loses her footing and plops onto the couch.

She’s definitely drunk, which might write away the inexplicably presumptuous way she’d latched onto Betty, but for whatever her reason, Veronica has apparently decided Betty is her new best friend, pulling Betty down on the couch with her.

The boy on the couch introduces himself at Kevin, and although he inconspicuously pretends to be reaching for a drink while also clearly checking the back of her jacket for a Serpent patch, he isn’t even halfway as rude to her as she’d expect the son of the sheriff to be.

In fact, Betty might venture a stab at calling him nice.

Certainly, if Toni had been here, there would’ve been a dry crack under her breath that everyone would definitely still hear and would’ve perhaps ruined the mood, but she’s not, and when Veronica announces the game will be _Texas Hold’em,_ Betty decides that—what the hell. She’s already here, and it’s favorable to going back to her dad’s house.

Ten minutes in, she quickly learns she has a terrible poker face. This shouldn’t surprise her—Betty’s never been a fair liar, but she has fun anyway, betting away the tortilla chips they’re using in lieu of poker chips. Veronica is an excellent player, clearly born to conceal, whereas Kevin immediately reveals a few tells, his voice dropping an octave or two whenever he has a poor hand.

One of the girls, ( _Melody,_ Betty thinks) is equally poor a liar, and she and Betty tie for dead last, as the remaining three girls—Veronica, and the other two, Josie and Valerie—fan the cards around their faces and duel for champion. Someone passes Betty a drink at some point, and she finds herself accepting it.

Or, dare she say it: finds herself having fun.

And then the door opens, and Archie appears at it, as do the outline of a couple of figures behind him. Betty watches as the familiar group of sentient letterman jackets shoulder into the room, immediately making themselves at home on the furniture.

Jughead is in the group. His eyes land on her immediately, and he doesn’t particularly look surprised to see her, but his face is hard to read in the low light, and when he sits across from her, he glances off.

“Whatcha ladies playing? _Please_ tell me it’s strip poker,” One of them asks, settling onto an armchair and putting his feet onto the ottoman where Josie sits. She pushes his feet off.

“ _We,_ of dual genders,” Kevin says pointedly, throwing Veronica a commiserating and annoyed look, “are playing poker _while_ remaining fully clothed, Reggie. Not you.”

“You want me _un_ clothed then? Hey, if you wanted my shirt off Keller, all you had to do was ask. Far be it from me to deny anyone the Mantle sculpting,” the guy, Reggie says, jokingly reaching for the hem of his top, which Kevin admittedly eyes a little hungrily.

“You can’t set him up like that,” Jughead grumbles from a few seats over.

“We’ll play though, if you want,” pipes up another one of the jocks, taking a seat next to Kevin, who shoots him a sidelong look, but doesn’t say anything else after glancing at Veronica once more.

“You know, this is _such_ a great party, Veronica,” Archie inserts without preamble or introduction, unable to have secured a spot near her but leaning halfway over the coffee table in compensation. He says it with such painful amounts of inebriated earnestness that Betty presses her lips together to hide a smile.

She glances over just in time to see Jughead staring at the ceiling and shaking his head, and when he looks back down, he shares a look of secondhand embarrassment with her.

Betty quickly looks away.

Veronica, for her part, appears to preen slightly under Archie’s praise, but manages it in a deftly unconcerned way that Betty could never imagine doing herself and admires all the same.

“I think I should get going,” Betty says softly to the dark-haired girl at her side, whose eyes flit away from Archie and onto Betty’s face with increasing despair, clearly exacerbated by the alcohol in her system.

“Please don’t,” she pouts, reaching for Betty’s hand and squeezing it. “We’re just getting to know you! Just crash! You said your ride left anyway, right?”

“Juggie can drive you home later,” Archie interjects immediately, shooting Jughead a hard look that clearly says _don’t blow this for me._ He turns back to the girls. “Veronica, Betty can just go back with us, he’s driving me back anyway, and she lives next door to me.”

“My _dad_ lives next door to you,” Betty corrects automatically, but the damage is done, as Veronica gasps merrily.

“Bueno! Archie Andrews, our _hero,”_ she adds, throwing him a simpering smile.

Feeling a bit like a pawn in their flirtation, instinct tells Betty it’s time to go. History tells her a room full of jocks is a recipe for humiliation.

But Veronica is beaming at her, Archie is beaming at Veronica, Jughead is rolling his eyes at Archie, and even so, everyone has been so nice to her, not once brought up budding rivalries between North and South, not fought over territory, not made her remember _where she came from_ and _what she has to fight for._

For a brief hour, and in fact until she had brought it up with herself, she’d forgotten all about the town line drawn down the middle of her.

It was a nice feeling—nicer than nice, and she has a childish, desperate desire to hold onto it.

So Betty nods, avoids Jughead’s eye, and quietly murmurs to Veronica that—yes, yes, okay, she’ll stay a little while longer.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, my increasingly tedious chapter lengths seem to be back! 
> 
> listening playlist: (and in order this time) [heart-shaped face](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E01oblLGs1Y) by angel olsen, [into dust](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SiO_7LhPZFM) by mazzy star, [real connection](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-0-JYmf846M) by part time (this one is for the roller rink especially), and [cherry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CjQ2jGUNSck) by the chromatics for the party scenes. 
> 
> (idk if anyone actually checks out the music though, so let me know if this is something you guys are interested in me sharing.)
> 
> i apologize for the slowness of this chapter---i've got a lot of work this month, and i just have to juggle a lot, so it's hard to know when i'll have any time to write. 
> 
> i know 98% of you probably hate toni on the show rn, but this is a different interpretation of her character, and i hope you guys keep an open mind about her! i really wanted to explore the friendships you have as children that get tested the older you get, and hopefully that all becomes apparent as the rest of the story unfolds. 
> 
> also, i decided not to have betty be a serpent because a) i knew it would take over the whole fic and i'm not really equipped to really tell an in-depth take of gang life and trying to escape it 
> 
> and b) mainly, it also wasn't the story i wanted to tell with betty. nor did i think i could make it fit with her character. the serpent stuff will keep coming up, but this is a story about character, not plot.
> 
> please let me know what you thought with a review! this chapter was a bit of a beast, and i was blocked on it for a while, so i would especially appreciate some reviews this time. feed your writers. we're hungry for feedback. please.


	4. Chapter 4

 

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“I was here first,” he hears behind him, and turns to see Betty, having gotten up off the couch now that the poker game is finished, mixing herself a drink and glaring at him, her chin jutted out in an obstinate way. “For the record. You know, before you get started about _math_ again.”

His lips twitch. “You were here first? How do you know that?”

Briefly, she looks confused, slowly realizing the trap she set up for herself. “Well—I didn’t see you,” she says finally, tipping her chin up even further.

“You were looking for me?” He grins, unable to help himself. But truthfully, he’s reached his limit; he tried the olive branch, tried polite distance, but if all she ever wants to do is get under his skin and ruffle him up, he’ll happily return the favor. See how she likes it.

“Of course not,” she snaps, eyes rolling. In the low light, it’s possible she might flush. “But I ran into your fellow meatheads before, and you weren’t with them.”

“Well, I’m not Schrodinger’s Jock. I _do_ still exist when not with my teammates, simultaneously gone and still alive,” he returns, now pivoting to face her fully and leaning up against the wall next to the drink cart.

As if she can’t help herself, Betty appears momentarily on the cliff of a laugh. It turns into a snort halfway through, and she turns away, moving across the room to plop back onto an armchair. In her moment of absence, Archie stole Betty’s seat on the couch next to Veronica, so Jughead settles back into his own original chair, now beside Betty, who takes a long pull of her drink.

He busies himself with watching Archie’s reverently terrible attempt at subtlety, but Veronica appears to appreciate it and shifts a little closer, the two of them completely lost in their own little bubble.

In a childish way, he wonders what that would be like—just to have things _work out_ that easily. It always does for Archie, and it always baffles him. Jughead has never quite figured out the formula for success; though to be fair, he also hasn’t ever thought too hard over it.

With baseball and its rigorous schedules and traveling, and all the shadows lurking within his house—flirtation just wasn’t something he’s ever had the time to properly wrestle over.

Veronica giggles loudly, and allows Archie to lead her off and away in search of a dark corner to steal away. It’s painfully unsubtle.

He glances over at Betty, and based on the somewhat dubiously amused look on her face, assumes she might be thinking along similar lines. As if feeling his eyes on her, she looks back over at him.

Her face, so readable a moment ago, changes imperceptibly, and he doesn’t know what to make of it. But he realizes that Veronica was clearly her only line of connection to staying at this party, let alone in the _room_ , and so he finds himself turning to face her.

“Okay, running the risk of beating a dead horse, say I showed up to a Southside house party,” Jughead presses again, because once more, it seems he can’t stop himself, seeking the slight thrill in riling her up. “All feudalist land deeds considered, would that really be me showing up first, if I went to a party where you would obviously be?”

Betty rolls her lips in an attempt to hide a smirk. “You wouldn’t last five minutes at a Southside house party.”

“Probably not,” he agrees, grinning wider, “but you’re not answering my question.”

She blows out a long breath. “Okay, since you apparently need me to spell it out for you, I didn’t come here specifically to see you, Jughead. What are we, twelve?”

“Yeah, she obviously came here to see me,” Reggie interjects from a seat over, Josie having gotten up and him having claimed the ottoman for his feet. He recrosses his legs over it and folds his arms behind his head, leaning back in the chair, proudly wearing the smug face of someone who has been eavesdropping. “Ain’t that right, Medusa?”

“Clever, if I were a Serpent,” Betty replies coolly. Jughead raises his eyebrows; he’d honestly been wondering, though he can’t really justify the curiosity. “Not that it matters. And please don’t flatter yourself.”

“Look, if I don’t flatter myself, who will?” Reggie replies affably, settling deeper into the armchair. “But hey, feel free to give it a shot, I’m more than willing to get an outside opinion.”

“Some friends you have here, Jones,” Betty mutters, getting up and mumbling something about a bathroom and _not knowing what she’s still doing here_ before disappearing through the door. Jughead throws Reggie a frustrated glare.

“Yikes,” Reggie murmurs, watching Betty go, his lips forming a rueful smile.

“What are you playing at?” Jughead sighs, narrowing his eyes at his friend.

“Just reading the room, bro,” he replies, the smile dimming. “Thought I was helping. I look worse, you look better, right? Wingmen fly full circle.”

“Not when she hates all jocks anyway and you’re just confirming her opinions,” Jughead mutters, and then quickly holds up a hand to silence himself. “Not that—that wasn’t what was happening there.”

Reggie throws up two hands of self-defense. “My bad then,” he says, but in a skeptical voice that seems to belie the apology. “Speaking of wingmen, though. I think Cheryl already left. I saw her for like, five minutes.”

Jughead shakes his head. “I’m telling you, Reg, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Sighing with all the world-weary weight of a tortured poet, Reggie nods, his eyes flitting across the room and, after a long moment, landing on Josie curiously.

Snorting, Jughead reaches over and pats Reggie’s leg. “I think you’ll be fine,” he says, getting up himself and looking for something to busy himself with while he waits for the time when one of his rides needs to go home.

He debates returning to the throng of the party, but that’d already been a serious exercise in patience and personal space. He never knows why he finds it so difficult to let loose at things like these—he’s got friends who want him here, to the point where they text him endlessly until he does, and whenever he arrives, he does eventually have a good time.

But maybe it’s just programming; JB lovingly calls him a textbook introvert, and when he had looked it up, he found there was something true to that. He knows he’s well liked, and he’s not even particularly confused by that fact, given the amount of trophies he’s had a hand in.

It’s not so much the people—it’s the parties. He knows—knows—it might be the alcohol too, but _going there_ as a factor is just playing a prolonged game of cat-and-mouse with himself, and he’s never in the mood for it.

It’s still the first week of summer, and he knows the steady stream of parties will die down soon, and then it won’t be a problem; but for now, they just exhaust him. He almost didn’t come tonight at all, and Betty had been right to announce she’d arrived to the party first.

Betty.

Why _is_ she here? Without judgment, he genuinely wonders how a girl so attached to her Southside identity found herself at such an obnoxiously Northsider party—Veronica had obviously played a role in affixing Betty to stay, but why had she come in the first place?

And it’d seemed like she’d just met everyone in the room, so he's lost as for an answer, and then Veronica had mentioned Betty lost her ride, which meant she hadn’t come alone, which only further deepens the mystery building in his mind.

Jughead weaves through the thrumming crowd, a loss for anything else to occupy himself with, throwing his hand up in dismissive greeting when a couple of guys from the wrestling team try to beckon him over, not in the mood to socialize.

After testing a few doors that remain locked, Jughead finds a pair of French windows that lead out onto a small balcony. He slips outside and folds himself over the black brass bars, throwing his head back in quiet solace as the humming, vibrating party becomes a distant din, replaced by the steady singing of summer cicadas on the trees beyond.

He thinks of Betty, an outsider in a sea of the glittering nonsense raging away indoors, and wonders what it would be like to be in her shoes.

She’s a braver soul than he, certainly, and he admires her much more now than he did before. He’s fairly sure that if he were the one from the other side of the tracks, he would’ve never been caught dead at a party like this in the first place. The only reason he even comes is to see his friends, and because he knows he’s welcome, and even then, he still feels uncomfortable.

She’s an enigma, that’s for sure—openly disapproving of himself and his friends, but willing to stick around at a strange party purely at the request of a new friend.

Closed off, certainly around him, but there’d been that moment in the poker game, when her fingers had smoothed out against her jeans and she’d smiled so softly to herself it’d been so momentarily arresting that he’d almost missed his turn to place a bet.

He’s also not stupid.

He knows that she’s—well, he’s seen her under many lights now, and isn’t finding her any less beautiful. Ironically, there’s certainly something more All-American about her than himself, something corn-fed, all her blonde hair and pink lips.

And she’s so _maddening_ —focused as she is on turning down every attempt he makes to befriend her, her little smirks, her eye rolls. They’d been getting along, that first night, all until he’d tried to ask for her name, and it baffles him, that clear line drawn in the sand, even though he thinks he might know the root of the issue.

 _I don’t like Jason Blossom either. I don’t know what I’m doing here either,_ he wants to say, sometimes wants to shout, even though there’s no logical justification for the thought. Betty may be the outsider at Northside party, but he’s not; he has no idea what he’s complaining about, given his position in life.

And yet.

But it doesn’t really matter.

Not only because she seems very determined to keep him at a distance, but also because he doesn’t have the time to invest in harboring the makings of a crush.

He’s got tryouts coming up and if they go well he’ll be traveling a lot this summer, he’s ferrying JB to and fro from day camp this month, he has the factory check to supervise with his dad coming up, scouts to meet with, practice, practice, practice—none of that is conducive to anything as distracting as a pretty girl.

He’s made it this far, anyway. So there’s a bit of dramatic irony that the only one who’s piqued a bit of his interest seems she would rather date a sentient armchair than himself, and he thinks— _well, this is the best way you could hope for this to go._

So he shakes his head, and closes the book in his mind.

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Try as he might, he can’t force himself back inside the party.

He can’t shake his annoyance with Reggie, Archie is surely occupied with thoughts of flirt and fancy, lately Moose is better at pulling disappearing acts than Jughead himself, and the last thing he feels like doing is running into Betty and seeing himself so poorly reflected in her eyes.

So he stays out there on the balcony for he’s not sure how long, counting the vibrations from the music beyond, reading articles on his phone and finding himself increasingly apoplectic the deeper into the rabbit hole of political corruption he goes.

He can just hear his sister laughing at him in his thoughts; _you went to a party, hid on a balcony nearly the whole time, and just read the Washington Post on your phone? My brother, the octogenarian._

He hopes JB will have more sense with what to do with her burgeoning popularity than himself. Then, a few moments later, he hears the tell-tale creaking of the window opening.

“Jughead, right?” He turns and sees new girl Veronica Lodge pressed up against the French windows, one manicured hand curled around the pane. “Pardon the fractured fairytale, but I think your carriage might be turning into a pumpkin if you don’t leave soon; Prince Charming is definitely ready to go home.”

He raises an eyebrow, and Veronica’s eyes dance upwards in some kind of half-hearted, amused roll, as she beckons him out of the balcony. In the hallway just beyond, Archie is leaning up against a wall, one of his arm’s slung over Betty as she partially supports his weight, looking comically bemused as to how she found herself in this situation.

“Juggie!” Archie calls cheerfully when he spots him and Veronica coming closer. He throws him a watery, guilty smile. “I did a keg stand.”

“He sure did,” Veronica says in a drawling voice, though it’s still somehow soft, gentle upon Archie, even if it might’ve sounded critical coming from anyone else.

“Reggie bet me that I couldn’t last thirty seconds. He was…wrong,” he says in a slur, hiccupping. “Please don’t be mad,” he adds, very meaningfully, and Jughead decides to swoop in before he can do something extremely stupid, like reveal even an iota of Jughead’s own family history.

Archie’s the only one who knows, and even to what extent, Jughead’s not sure, given they’ve never ever actually _had_ the direct conversation—but regardless, it’s not a secret he wants aired.

“Okay, okay,” he says in a rush, moving forward to pick up most of Archie’s weight from Betty. “No problem, dude. Misplaced exhibitions of machismo happen to everyone, even the best of us,” he mutters, and he can swear he sees Betty smile out of the corner of his eye.

“Am I driving anyone else home?” He asks, grunting as he guides Archie off the wall.

“Just me, I think. Asian Fabio seemed pretty busy last I saw him,” Betty mumbles, turning back to Veronica. “Thanks for getting me to stay. I had a nice time,” she adds, in a soft voice that sounds almost surprised with herself.

“Of course,” Veronica says, in her clear, confident voice. She grasps Betty’s hands. “And I have your number, so I need you steel yourself in preparation of me using it. Because I plan to. We’ll do brunch, okay?”

Betty’s eyes momentarily threaten to bulge out of their sockets, but she masks it quickly, smiling in response, and Jughead has a feeling that she may have never once been approached for a concept like _brunch_ ever before in her life.

“That sounds fun,” Betty says, but in a slightly absent tone, like she doesn’t expect anything of the promise. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Take me home, country roads,” Archie sing-songs suddenly, which Jughead takes as drunk-Archie-speak for requesting to go home, and he’s all too ready to comply. Betty snorts and calls the elevator.

“Bye Veronica,” Archie calls over his shoulder, his head lolling around like a balloon on a string.

“Tootles, Archiekins,” she replies, in a mirthful, tinkling voice, wiggling her fingers at the three of them in goodbye as they disappear behind the elevator doors.

As they descend towards the lobby, Jughead tries to think of something to say. He can feel the tension hanging palpably between them, something he assumes is annoyance practically radiating off of her in hot, thick waves of steam.

He stays silent.

Archie keeps humming to himself.

Betty stares at nothing.

The elevator dings to a halt, and the lobby is now much quieter and more empty than it was when he arrived. He shepherds Archie down the main steps, and Betty follows silently, her hands shoved in the pockets of her leather jacket.

When he pulls to a stop in front of his truck across the street, Betty looks confused. “This is your car?”

“Truck,” he corrects, which definitely further annoys her, as he hears her huff. “But yes, this is the valiant, trusted steed.”

She throws it a cursory, skeptical glance. “I just… Aren’t you one of the founding families?”

His brow wrinkles, unsure what that has to do with anything. “So what?”

Betty shrugs. “I just thought all them had money to burn, or something. This truck lived through the fall of Yugoslavia.”

Jughead throws her a withering look as he opens up the door, half-needing to shove an increasingly drowsy Archie inside and into the middle seat. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, I like this truck,” he mutters in lieu of the long answer, as he doubts she actually cares for the drawn out version. “This is the one I wanted.”

She rolls her eyes, but then they dart over Archie curiously, as if thinking. “I should take the middle, so he can lean up against the window if he passes out, and not on either of us,” she says, in a somewhat resigned voice.

That means she’ll have to sit next to him, which he would’ve thought might’ve only been on pain of death if he hadn’t heard her make the suggestion himself.

“Your call,” he replies eventually, maneuvering Archie onto the passenger side and buckling him in before cutting around the front of the truck.

He opens up the driver’s door, and gestures for Betty to slide in, which she does so nimbly, her hands never leaving her pockets.

“So does the fact that I drive an ancient F-150 improve or diminish your opinion of me?” He asks, once they’ve both put on their seatbelts and he’s starting turning off Veronica’s street.

“I don’t have an opinion of you,” she says firmly, not looking at him. “So, neither.”

“Roger that,” he mumbles, buckling Archie into his seatbelt and then shutting the door. He turns the radio up along the drive, doing his best to keep his eyes from drifting to her. Veronica’s apartment in the downtown isn’t too far from Archie’s block, but the road somehow seems impossibly stretched out, empty and quiet, and he can feel their own silence settling in like a physical presence once more.

He glances over, and realizes Betty was right; Archie appears asleep against the passenger window, his forehead pressed into the glass.

“So what _were_ you doing at a Northsider party?” He asks, without really meaning to. But the radio had turned to static and he could feel the crackling white noise like it was in his own veins, and Betty was sitting so stiffly, her hands in her pockets—he’d just needed a bit of a distraction.

He sees Betty bite her lip in his peripheral vision. “It wasn’t planned, at least on my end,” she admits. She sounds unmistakably defensive. “It was my friend’s idea.”

“The same friend who ditched you?”

“She didn’t _ditch_ me,” Betty says hotly. “She knows I can take care of myself. A certain amount of independence is required for life on the Southside,” she adds, more to herself.

He believes her.

The rest of the drive unfolds quickly after that, and Jughead kills the headlights and the engine as they pull up in front of the two houses.

“Archie, we’re here,” Jughead says, unbuckling himself so he reach across Betty’s lap and jiggle Archie’s knee, who mumbles something incoherent in response, his eyes closed. “Archie, time to go inside.”

“No,” Archie mutters in a childish pout, curling his body further inward and pulling his knee away from Jughead’s reach.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, getting out of the front seat. Betty does the same, sliding out after him, looking equal parts amused and bemused. Jughead tries a new tactic, rounding the truck so he can open the passenger door.

“Archie, you have a nice bed waiting for you upstairs, in your nice house. You can’t sleep in the truck,” Jughead says plainly, but Archie’s eyes just squeeze more tightly shut.

“I live here now,” he mumbles in a slur. “I live in your truck.”

“No, you don’t. You gotta get up, I’m not carrying you inside by myself,” Jughead says calmly. He knows by now the best way to handle this kind of situation is by being direct, after all.

“Let me try,” Betty interjects from the driver’s side, and Jughead’s hands fly up around his face, as if to say _why not._ “Archie,” she says in a soft, alluring voice, and he would be lying if he didn’t admit it made his hairs stand on end. “Archie, Veronica is upstairs. She has something she wants to say to you. Something really important.”

Archie opens one bleary eye and fixes it at Betty for a long moment before shutting it back closed. “No she’s not,” he says, bullish through the drunken stupor. “We just left her house. She’s not at my house. Because…geography.”

“The one time he develops logical deduction skills,” Jughead sighs, glancing at Betty. “It was a good idea, though.” He turns back to his friend, keeping his voice steady. “Archie, if you don’t get up and out of the truck, I’m going to have to come up with increasingly creative and torturous ideas to get you out. You don’t want to see that side of my brain.”

Archie makes a stubborn noise of disagreement, turning further away from Jughead.

Her lips pursed, Betty puts her hands on her hips, thinking, and then crawls back into the truck on her knees. “Okay, grab his shoulders,” she says.

“What?”

“Grab his shoulders, and pull him out. I’ll get his feet,” she says matter-of-factly. At his bewildered look, she adds, “Look at him, he’s practically passed out. I’m not going to make you carry all that dead weight upstairs by yourself. I’m not _heartless_.”

“Okay,” Jughead says, shaking his head, and unbuckles Archie so he can heave him out of the truck. Betty wriggles on after him, catching Archie’s feet before they hit the ground, and climbing out on his side. She shuts the door behind herself, grunting a little with Archie’s weight.

They shuffle with him through the yard, and Jughead can’t help but think that if any third party were to witness this, it would look unmistakably like two people trying to move a body. They hit a snag when they reach the front porch, and Jughead walks backwards up the steps.

“Now what?” Betty asks, adjusting her grip on Archie’s ankles. “God, he’s heavy.”

“He’s a football player, I don’t know what you expected,” he mutters back, he himself struggling with Archie’s weight while simultaneously fiddling with his keys and looking for the one that’ll unlock the Andrews’ front door. Betty looks a bit surprised to realize Jughead has his own set, but doesn’t comment.

He’s not sure how it works, but somehow he gets his key in the door and they maneuver themselves through it.

“What about his parents?” Betty asks, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“It’s just his dad,” Jughead murmurs back, as he begins working backwards up the stairs. “And he’s a deep sleeper, trust me. It’s fine.”

Just as they reach the top, Betty speaks again, and he can’t believe _this_ is the one time she decides to make conversation, as they carry a half-awake Archie up his own stairs. “So does this happen a lot? You seem kind of unfazed.”

He nearly trips, his heart suddenly picking up. “What?”

“’What do you do with a drunken sailor,’ and all that,” she says, maybe attempting to shrug if she wasn’t still holding onto Archie’s legs. He stares at her, and she starts to falter. “I just meant—seems like you’re used to this.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He hisses, racing backwards through the night. Had Archie mentioned something? She couldn’t have picked up on—

“Forget it, sorry, don’t bite my head off,” she mumbles darkly, attempting to move forward, throwing him a confused look when he won’t budge.

And maybe it’s Archie’s increasing immaturity manifesting through intoxication, maybe the fact that he didn’t expect to be dealing with the ghost of a drunken idiot inhabiting his friend tonight. 

Maybe it’s the long day he’s had. Maybe it’s the fact that he didn’t ice his shoulder for long enough after training today and it’s starting to ache under the weight of Archie. Maybe it’s all the glaring from Betty.

Maybe it’s all of the above.

“Don’t bite _your_ head off? Jesus, okay, that’s rich,” he says, in a low, bitter voice. She looks fleetingly taken aback before her expression tightens off once more, and it only darkens his mood.

“I don’t get it, what the hell did I do to make you think so lowly of me? I thought we were getting along, that night, and then it was like—” He can’t quite finish the sentence, and he almost drops Archie in his own frustration. “What exactly is your problem with me?”

“I don’t have a problem with you,” she shoots back, struggling to keep her voice at a whisper, her eyes narrowing. She looks flustered, the question clearly caught her off guard, and seems to grapple with an answer.

He sees the moment she finds it; her eyes harden over, but all it does is make her look suddenly more caged. “Believe it or not, Jughead, I actually don’t think that much about someone I’ve only had, what, three conversations with.”

They glare at each other, and he realizes both their chests are inexplicably heaving. He decides it’s probably just from the exertion of carrying Archie upstairs.

“Fine,” he hisses, at a loss for any other words.

 _“Fine,”_ she snaps back, and they continue their shuffling down the hallway and through Archie’s bedroom until they’re close enough to maneuver him onto the bed.

Archie mumbles something as he hits the sheets, and Betty immediately moves away, wrapping her arms around herself.

Jughead watches as she moves closer to the bedroom window; watches as the anger fades off her face, smoothing away like a polished stone.

Her arms tighten across her abdomen.

When she finally speaks, her voice is very soft.

“I didn’t know you could see into my room so easily,” she says, and he realizes she’s looking across the garden path, at the pink room, warmly illuminated and undisturbed.

“Only really when the lights are on, which they usually aren’t,” he says from across the room, and Betty looks over, her brow furrowing slightly, as if trying to transpose something out of that. He joins her at the window. “That’s yours?”

She nods, and Jughead follows her line of sight. From the distance, and under the low din and a black sky, the room looks eerily like something out of a dollhouse, miniature and perfect down to the detail.

He thinks of Betty, with her blonde hair and smooth skin, and imagines another world where someone tried to package and present her like a doll to match the bedroom, like one of the little collectible twin sets that his mother used to buy for JB.

“I used to wonder about that room, actually,” he hears himself admitting. “I mean, Fred’s neighbor was just this one, quiet guy, living in this big house by himself, all the rooms decorated. Especially the pink one; you _could_ kind of see in at the right time of day. It was kind of…”

She tips her chin up to look at him. He realizes they’re standing fairly close, but surprisingly, she doesn’t move away. A wry smile buds across her lips. “Did you think it was a ‘for sale: baby shoes, never worn’ type thing?”

“I mean, probably not something so openly macabre, but…yeah, a little bit,” he says, chuckling.

Betty blows out a breath that is halfway a laugh, and stares back over at her room. “No, nothing like that,” she murmurs quietly.

He allows himself another long moment of studying her, tracing the valley of her brows, the nestling thought living there, before turning to tuck Archie into bed. He gets about a foot across the room when he hears, “It’s not you.”

Jughead pivots. Betty’s eyes remain focused on the window, and he watches her fingers lacing and unlacing, rhythmically, as if in tune to some unsung song.

“You’re right,” she says, in that same soft voice. “I have a problem with someone, but it’s not you. You’ve been nice, and I’ve been…” she trails off, finally looking at him. Her eyes are wide and reflective, despite the half-light, and he notices as her arms wrap even more firmly around her body. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know what to say. Part of him feels relieved—unspeakably relieved, clawing at his chest for a reason he couldn’t begin to unspool even if he tried. The other part of him is confused, bereft.

“It’s okay,” he says after a long silence, unable to find anything else to land on. He gets it, he thinks. Or, he has the rough picture—something about Jason and her sister. He’d probably hate himself by association too, in her shoes.

She blinks at him, and then nods. He feels something indescribable flutter against his skin, something like a shift, maybe like the world tilting slightly on its axis.

“Let me help with his shoes,” she murmurs, crossing the room towards the bed and reaching for Archie’s foot, who stirs back into the land of the living the moment she touches him.

He attempts to sit up against his pillows and stares at Betty, and then at his own foot in her hands, and then grabs onto Jughead’s arm beside him and shakes it. “Jughead, Juggie, wait, I remembered, her name is Betty. Remember, you asked me like a million times, and I didn’t know?” He slumps back down, exhaustion returning. “I remember now. It’s Betty.”

Jughead releases a long-suffering sigh. _A million times_ is something of an exaggeration. “Thanks for the update, pal,” he mumbles, just as Betty looks up and over, her lips pressed together to hide a smile as she unlaces Archie’s sneakers.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he’s trashed,” Jughead says to her, ducking down to get position a waste bin near Archie’s bed, should he choose to empty the said trash out of his stomach. Betty makes a noise of dubious agreement, unlacing the other shoe and depositing it on the floor.

Archie adjusts himself against his pillows and points an accusatory finger at Betty. “You started the food fight,” he says to her, apropos of absolutely nothing.

At the same time that he says, _“What?”,_ Betty throws her head back and laughs, wearing a wide grin. It doesn’t fade, and in fact something faraway blooms, and Jughead suddenly wonders whether that wasn’t complete drunken gibberish.

“I won’t tell,” Archie mutters under his breath.

“Good,” Betty sighs, her smile turning wistful.

Archie gravens suddenly, his whole face deflating and then sharpening, as if perhaps about to deliver news of a death overseas.

“Hey, Betty,” he slurs, but trying very hard to sound serious. He then looks over at Jughead, as if gathering his courage, his eyes steeling despite the haze beyond them, and Jughead’s breath stops, feeling something ominous building in his own chest.

They all wait. Archie glances back at Jughead once more.

And then, to Betty, “Do you think Veronica likes me?”

“Oh boy,” Betty murmurs, her hands on her hips.

Jughead decides this has gone on long enough. “Okay,” he intercedes, pushing on Archie’s shoulders until he lies back down, and then pulls the blankets up around him. “Okay, buddy. What do you need from me before I go home?”

“Water,” Archie mumbles, his head flopping down onto his pillow. He doesn’t move, but his eyes flit up onto Jughead’s face. “Ugh, _food.”_

And then, into the pillow, he breaks out into a muffled chorus of what Jughead thinks are the lyrics to _American Pie,_ but maybe with a bit of the Weird Al version’s lines thrown in. Jughead smirks.

He then throws his head towards the door, and Betty follows, and they both slip into the hallway. “Getting him upstairs with his father asleep was one thing,” Betty whispers. “But we can’t go clanging around in the kitchen without waking him up.”

“Look, I practically live in that kitchen, and my witching hours are well into midnight. Fred’s used to the things that go bump in the night, as long as they’re coming from the direction of the fridge. It’s fine, I’ll just make him some toast,” he murmurs, eying down the long hallway that leads to Fred’s room and seeing that it remains silent and dark. “And you don’t have to stick around, I’ve got this.”

“No, relax, I can help you make toast for your drunk friend,” Betty whispers back, rolling her eyes.

He’d started to go, to head for the stairs, but he stops, glancing backwards at her, unsure what to make of the tone in her voice. She isn’t looking at him, and brushes past, tiptoeing downstairs gracefully.

She waits for him at the bottom of the stairs, and he gestures her further through the house, flicking on a light as they come into the kitchen. Vegas bursts to life from his spot on the dog bed as soon as he sees them, immediately shoving his head at Jughead’s dangling hands.

“Bread?” Betty whispers, and Jughead, crouched on his knees and rubbing behind the dog’s ears, points just beyond the toaster, where the little red breadbox sits.

She frowns as she pulls out the Wonder Bread, clearly giving it a sidelong look of suspicion, but sets to work pulling out the pieces.

“What was that look for?” He asks, standing up, much to the audibly whining complaint of Vegas.

“It’s bachelor bread,” Betty says quietly, losing her whisper, taking his lead and just keeping a steady, soft tone.

“Bachelor bread?” He repeats dubiously, feeling his lips lift into a grin.

Betty pushes down on the toast lever and looks back over at him. “Yeah. I mean, not to get into a conversation about gender socialization, I only ever see this processed brand of white bread in the houses of single men. My dad eats this stuff too.”

He folds his arms, considering this. They usually have some kind of sourdough lying around—but he has a feeling that if he mentions that, Betty will say it counts based on color alone. “My dad’s single. We don’t.”

“What kind, then?” She asks, a challenging quirk to her eyebrow.

“Sourdough,” he admits, after a beat.

“That’s almost a white bread. Same color,” she says boldly, just like he’d assumed she would. She leans down and pets Vegas a few times, and he immediately throws his whole body against her leg in the way big dogs do, shimmying for more attention.

“Now you’re just changing the rules to suit your already made up paradigm,” he huffs, moving for the fridge and getting out the butter. “That’s cheating—and it is _not_ almost a white bread, and I think you knew that, you just wanted to argue with me. And what kind of bread do you eat, anyway—let me guess, only the finest of Julia Childs? Unleavened recipes excavated from Ancient Greece?”

“I do make my own,” Betty says, something he hadn’t expected. She shrugs listlessly under his look, still petting Vegas. “What? It’s a good way to kill a whole day, or something to do in between homework breaks. And I like making my own food.”

There’s something unsaid at the tail end of that sentence, but he doesn’t know her well enough to guess, let alone ask.

“Fair enough,” he says, closing the fridge door after retrieving a Tupperware filled with the leftover apple pie from Fred’s birthday.

Betty eyes it curiously, watching his movements as he digs out two forks for them. He holds one out to her, and hesitantly, she straightens and takes it, but not coming any closer. “What? Do you make your own apple pie, too? Can’t muddy your taste buds with store-bought imitation?”

“I don’t make apple pie,” Betty says finally, coming up around the other side of the kitchen island and scooping up a small bite. He’d been trying to tease her again, but maybe it’s just too late and she’s too tired, because she doesn’t take the bait. “Too metaphorically sour,” she mutters around the fork, so softly he almost doesn’t catch it.

He watches her, once more frustratingly puzzled by the girl before him. “I do make a mean chocolate cake, though,” she adds, with something of a genuine smile.

The toast pops up, and in the time that Jughead goes to retrieve it and slide in the last two slices in the bag, the smile has dimmed off Betty’s face. She’s staring around the kitchen, looking suddenly mournful, or perhaps lost.

She meets his eyes, and he wonders if she’s about to flee. He waits a beat, but when she doesn’t make an excuse to leave, he decides to try something.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking,” he says, buttering the first batch of toast. Betty leans forward over the counter, busying herself with another bite of pie. “If your dad’s lived next door for forever, how come I haven’t…seen you around before?”

“You have,” she says quietly, glancing at him.

That, he hadn’t expected; he takes a moment to deposit the prepared toast on the plate while considering her words.

“No, I’d remember,” he says eventually, doing his best to keep it from sounding like a line. He’s fairly certain if he openly attempted that, she’d run for the hills immediately. Not that—he knows that’s not what’s going to happen here.

“Whatever you say,” she murmurs knowingly. He squints at her, as if trying to jog backwards in time, but nothing immediately comes to mind. She grins, the fork between her teeth. “Maybe you’ve just taken one too many balls to the head.”

“Ha, ha,” he replies flatly.

“Just saying,” she says, shrugging. And then she pushes off the kitchen island, taking the fork to the sink and washing it off, and he knows she’s about to leave. True to form, when she faces him, her hands still curled around the edge of the sink, her expression is closed off again. “I actually should get back. My dad’s oblivious, but even he can read a clock.”

Jughead looks at her, and then gestures with his head towards the back door leading out of the kitchen. “That one will put you in the yard,” he says.

She nods and heads to the door, but her hand hesitates on the knob. She eyes him, biting her lip.

“Night,” she says finally, in that same odd, distant tone that she used on Veronica. He’s not quite sure how to describe it; not unkind, not cold. Just far away.

It takes him a moment to find his voice. “Goodnight,” he says finally, but by then she’s already gone.

.

.

.

Afterwards, he traipses upstairs, laden with the largest mug he could find to fill with water, and a plate of toast for his best friend.

He patiently waits as Archie slowly eats it all, watches him down the entire mug, refills it in the bathroom sink when he asks for more, and then settles into the wooden chair by the window, hoping to gather his own thoughts, unmoored and vague as they feel.

The red numbers of Archie’s alarm clock blink out at him in the darkness.

It’s later than he’d expected, and he feels his own exhaustion set in, the ache in his shoulder, the creaking protest of his young bones.

The idea of making the drive up the long hill to his house suddenly seems painfully unrealistic and darkly daunting, and decides at that moment to crash on the Andrews’ couch.

He shoots off a note of that to his sister, but that he’ll be there in the morning to pick her up. He adds a reminder that she has to be up and ready to go by _nine_ this time or she’ll be late to camp _again_ on her second day.

For someone so dedicated to her own creative fulfillment, she sure likes to take her sweet time getting from place to place, and he hopes tomorrow morning isn’t another exercise in barking a countdown at her from the bottom of the stairs.

Just as he’s about to get up for the couch, he sees movement out of the corner of his eye, looking over to see Betty walking across the glass pane of her room, shaking her hair out of its ponytail, drifting back and forth across her shoulders like a pool of water when it catches the sun.

He notices himself memorizing the motion, and quickly gets up, forcing himself away from the chair, as he feels like that could straddle the line of getting very creepy, very fast.

Archie has finished the water, so Jughead rolls him onto his side and is about to finally leave the room when he allows himself one last look at Betty’s window.

The lights flicker off in that moment.

.

.

.

He wakes the next morning to the smell of coffee wafting under his nose, and opens his eyes just in time to see Fred Andrews depositing a mug of the steaming drink on the end table beside the couch.

“Thought that might do the trick,” Fred says, in his perennially amused, crow’s feet of a voice.

Jughead stretches under the knit afghan, and then pushes himself up on the couch, reaching for the mug. “Deliverance,” he murmurs, as the first sip hits his tongue and rises all the way up to his head.

“Come on bud, I’ve got eggs going,” Fred says, clapping him on the shoulder and disappearing towards the kitchen. Jughead allows himself another savoring sip of coffee, his breath blowing out in relief, and then pulls himself to his feet and pads after Fred.

He slides onto the barstool, glancing at the clock over the sink. He knows it’s still early, as he’d set an alarm that hasn’t gone off yet, but it’s good to know he has plenty of time for breakfast before he has to head back to retrieve JB.

“Your dad know you’re here?” Fred asks, his back to him as he gives the pan a little shake on the stove.

“He doesn’t care,” Jughead sighs, shrugging when Fred turns and throws him a scolding frown.

“He does care,” he says meaningfully. “And I’m starting to lose track of the amount of times I come downstairs and see you on that couch. You know I’m happy to have you, Jug, but I gotta ask—”

“Fred, it’s fine,” Jughead interrupts. “Really. We’re just staying up too late, and I’d rather not drive when I’m tired. The road up to my place is so dark at night, I’ve been training really hard lately, with nationals tryouts coming up so soon...it just adds up. If it’s a hassle, I’ll sleep on Archie’s floor, next time it happens.”

Looking as though he’s deciding if it’s worth pushing, Fred sighs noisily and turns off the burner. “Of course it’s not a hassle. You’re always welcome here, Jughead,” he says, in a resigned voice as he piles the scramble onto a plate.

A smile returns to his face. “I’d offer you toast, but all the bread mysteriously vanished overnight,” he adds knowingly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says wryly, shoveling a forkful into his mouth.

“Guess you also wouldn’t know anything about the disappearing apple pie and the two forks in the drying rack,” Fred replies, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re not as stealthy as you think you are, Jug. Who was the girl?”

The smug smirk falls right off his face. “You heard us?”

“Hard not to hear a fight happening outside my door, to be honest,” Fred replies, throwing Jughead a prompting look. “Everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” Jughead says, after another stalling bite of food. “It wasn’t a fight. It was… We cleared it up. I think.”

“Mmhm,” Fred muses, sweeping Jughead with a thoughtful look. “Was she someone I know?”

Once again, it’s as close to _prying_ as fatherly, respectful Fred Andrews can get, and Jughead knows what he’s implying, trying to subtly ask if Jughead Jones has finally got himself a girlfriend.

“Probably,” he sighs, hoping if he stays evasive enough, Fred won’t push it further. “She’s your next door neighbor’s daughter.”

“Hal?” Fred looks surprised. “Must’ve been Betty, she’s your guys’ age,” he adds, more to himself, as if currently working backwards through a memory. “Haven’t seen her since…man, gotta be since Archie’s seventh birthday.”

Jughead looks up sharply. “What?”

If Fred becomes suspicious of the suddenly curious glint in Jughead’s eye, he doesn’t say anything. “It’s not really my business to share, Jug. But there was a summer those girls lived there,” he says, a sense of finality in his voice, and Jughead knows better than to test Fred’s morality and decorum.

Is that what Betty meant, when she’d said they’d met before?

And then it all clicks—Archie pointing at her last night, proclaiming that she’d started a food fight, her little smile when she’d joked about his memory.

A flash of a late summer’s day passes across his thoughts, when he’d turned around just in time to see a piece of cake hurdling past his line of sight, the little blonde girl he didn’t know grinning toothily.

It’s just a snapshot, like a page ripped out of a book, and try as he might, he can’t work further back in his mind. There’d been something off about that day, but now probably isn’t the time for the astral projection required to unravel the rest of it.

He finishes his eggs and coffee just as he hears the alarm on his phone ringing, back on the couch. Washing his plate in the sink and placing it in the drying rack next to the pair of forks from last night, he wipes off his hands.

“I gotta get going,” he says, sliding off his stool. “JB has day camp this year, and it’s all the way in Greendale, so it’s a whole process to get her out the door.”

Fred chuckles against the rim of his mug, sipping at his drink. “I bet,” he says, nodding. “Give her my best.”

Jughead throws a two-fingered salute in response, jogs into the living room to quiet his shrilling phone, and grabs his keys, throwing one last _goodbye_ across the house before slipping out into the new morning.

He determines to keep his eyes away from the Cooper house as he walks across the front yard, but he loses that war, his neck craning upwards in the direction he knows her window is. He can’t see it anyway, not from this angle.

He shakes his head to himself.

Something about the truck glints a little differently under the sunlight.

He can’t put his finger on it.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: [outside ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DwNH-Mavtr0)by TOPS, [break on through to the other side](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-r679Hhs9Zs) by the doors, and [pain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9LgHNf2Qy0) by the war on drugs, something about which latter band really hits my sweet spot of lonely-heart-on-an-open-road that's always my jughead. 
> 
> i'm not having a super great week, but this chapter wanted to come out of me in spite of my need to work on my actual job stuff, lmao, so i'm a bit too exhausted to get to the rest of my review replies at the moment. 
> 
> i hate, hate, hate being behind on them---i appreciate every single comment so much, you guys don't even know, so i really love engaging back with you, i'm just...having a hard time juggling my time this month and i have a few left to get to. 
> 
> please don't hold it against me, and i'd really like some reviews, as i went back and forth a lot with the structure of this chapter. the role reversal thing is hard, guys. 
> 
> special thanks to jeemyjamz, who really helped me work through what i thought this chapter was missing. please drop me a review and let me know what you think. please, i'm tired and thirsty


	5. Chapter 5

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She’s not sure how long she’s awake.

But she lies there, one hand tucked under a white pillow spotted with little blue flowers, the other pressed up against her chin, watching the morning sun move in a spotlight across the carpeted floor until she hears her father’s rumblings downstairs.

Her name floats up through the floorboards, followed by a summons for an imminent breakfast, and Betty finally looks at the little ticking alarm clock on the bedside table and realizes it’s past nine, and probably reasonable to get out of bed.

She doesn’t bother changing out of her pajamas yet, but slides into her slippers and pads down the stairs to see her father, already dressed for a day of work, fiddling with instant oatmeal in the kitchen.

“I’m still not much of a cook,” he says when he spots her, in a bit of a hopeless voice, pouring a steaming kettle of hot water over the oats. He gestures with his elbow towards the coffee maker. “But coffee’s ready.”

Betty nods and pours herself a mug, preparing it with the already present amount of creamer and sugar cubes her father has apparently memorized that she likes. She sits down at the big oak table, which is devoid of anything but two napkins and spoons, and a few moments later, her father deposits the rising bowl of oatmeal before her.

He’s just sat down when he instantly jumps back up, almost as if there’d been something prickly on his chair. “Oh! I almost forgot. I have a present for you,” he says, and then scurries off towards his den, coming back a moment later with something soft and gray in his arms.

He airs it out with all the admiration of a doting grandmother presenting something she may have hand-knit for a relative, and Betty sees it’s a plain gray sweatshirt with the words ITHACA COLLEGE in big red lettering curving across the front.

Betty blinks, and Hal beams at her. “It’s my alma matter,” he says, passing the sweatshirt to her. “I was up there a few months ago, meeting with an old buddy of mine who stayed up in Ithaca, and picked one up for you. Thought you might like it.”

Her first instinct is to ask why he thought she’d want a sweatshirt from a college she hasn’t attended or ever even thought about before, but the thought dies out almost at once. After all, she knows what he’s doing—especially as he settles back into his chair and grins at her, looking uncannily like her sister right before she pounces for a request.

“Thanks,” Betty says softly, taking the bundle of cotton in her arms.

“Some of my best memories are from back there,” he says matter-of-factly, scooping himself up a spoonful of oatmeal. “It’s a _great_ school. You know, there are a lot of really wonderful colleges right here in upstate New York.”

_Subtlety, thy name is not Cooper._

He takes a sip of his coffee, eying her over the brim of it. “I know it’s early, but have you thought at all about where you’d like to start applying?”

She blinks.

She’s _thought_ about college, obviously, that was a large part of the reason why she agreed to rebuild her relationship with her father—or at least, stay with him a bit this summer—but beyond the vague inclination that she never wants to live in a small town ever again, she hasn’t ruminated much farther than knowing there are many cities full of good colleges wherein she can become an average, anonymous student.

New York City has always been something of a fantasy island for escapism, back when she was a little girl and busy playing detective with her best friend, but that concept seems so far away now, a smoky wisp of a thought.

Her father tries again, not bothered by Betty’s silence. “The SUNY system is pretty reliable—I’ve read that New Paltz is a solid option. But I thought Sarah Lawrence might be a good fit for you, since you like to read—it’s got a very strong liberal arts lean. And there’s obviously Cornell,” Hal says, very quickly, and just _slightly_ too conversationally.

“I don’t think I can get into Cornell,” Betty replies slowly, grinning thinly, as it’s certainly not lost on her that her father seems preoccupied with her options remaining in-state.

“You don’t know that,” Hal says stubbornly, as if Betty only closed her eyes and _wished hard enough,_ she might just learn to sprout wings while she’s at it. “But, again, I want you to think about Ithaca College. Great school, good size, small town, a real immersive college experience. And I’m still friends with a couple of people who work up there, so you’d already have a network to fall back on.”

“Um,” she mumbles, swallowing a bite of oatmeal. “Well, I don’t think I want to live in another small town right now. I’d kind of been thinking something maybe…in a city?”

Hal finally seems to register her words, seemingly confused that her opinion might deviate from his own. “Oh. Well—it’s important to keep your options open, of course,” he says after a moment, in the same clipped voice her mother uses when it’s the end of a conversation. He then glances at the clock, and dabs his mouth with his napkin. “Oops. Gotta get going, newspapers don’t write themselves,” he says, pushing back his chair and standing.

He drops her a goodbye, deposits his oatmeal bowl into the sink, and then disappears through the rest of the house; a few minutes later, the front door quickly closes behind him. She waits for a click that doesn’t come, as he doesn’t even bother locking the door.

Betty finishes her oatmeal and then washes the bowls, more out of lack of anything else to do.

She runs a hand slowly through her tangled hair, staring around the eerily quiet house, every corner seemingly exposed to morning light. She trots back up the stairs and drops onto the bed, reaching over to the bedside table to check her phone.

Her face falls. Nothing from Toni still, which could be explained by the fact that Toni tends to sleep as much as a house cat and she’s probably not even awake yet, but Betty decides enough time has passed that she could try another text.

_Hey! What happened to you last night?_

Knowing the likelihood that Toni will be awake before noon is slim, Betty immediately tosses her phone across the bed and gets up, undressing and pulling the little pink towel from its spot on the corner of her wardrobe.

She hesitates by the window, her hand tightly wound against the knot of her towel, and then draws the curtains shut.

In the shower, Betty busies herself with reading the back of the labels of the floral and vanilla-scented shampoo and conditioner that her father purchased for the upstairs bathroom that was originally supposed to belong to her and her sister. There’s a new bar of pink soap on the rack, and a matching pink loofah.

Sometimes she’s convinced her father goes to the drugstore and simply begs the store clerk to direct him to the section most heavily marketed for six-year-old girls, as if he thinks that he can make up for lost time by acting like she still has the same taste from that age.

The funny thing is that Betty wouldn’t mind it, if it didn’t come so attached with her father’s obvious overtures; if it didn’t, like everything he does, feel like there were strings attached. If it didn’t seem to be an idea of having a daughter, rather than actually having one.

Because she actually _likes_ baby soft pinks and blues—she finds something calming and soothing about the colors, for however as much as she’d get made fun of for wearing too much of it.

Little rivers of soap spill down both sides of her face.

She stands under the spray until the water runs cold.

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On Wednesday morning, Toni finally responds.

 ** _Ugh, sorry for the radio silence,_** comes her text, and Betty can just imagine her rolling her eyes in the endlessly-suffering way only Toni can do well. **_Long story. Swing by the Wyrm around 1 and I’ll unload._**

Betty shoots back a response that she’ll be there, admittedly relieved to have something to fill her afternoon with other than another long day hiding out at the library until her shift begins. After her father leaves for work, she kills time watching a bit of mindless television on his big screen downstairs until it’s time to go.

She dresses in a pair of black skinny jeans and a plain white t-shirt, forgoing a jacket as a quick test of the air proves it’ll be another impossibly hot day. She shouldn’t even really wear jeans, but she doesn’t like the way her motorcycle rubs against her skin in shorts, and so her options are limited.

As she pulls up to the Whyte Wyrm a little before the anointed hour, Betty notices more parked bikes around the outside of the bar than would be average for midday on a Wednesday, and she wonders if there’s some kind of monthly Serpent meeting happening today.

The answer seems obvious as she walks through the main doors, seeing several Serpents of all ages idly milling around. A couple of them glance over as she passes over the threshold; perhaps some of them know her as Polly Cooper’s little sister, or maybe just vaguely recognize her as a familiar face, because they all lose interest in her fairly quickly and look away.

Toni waves at her from across the room, her feet kicked up on a little round table, and as Betty nears her, she realizes Toni is still wearing the same clothes she last saw her in, her normally well-coifed pink hair frizzy around her shoulders.

“Hey,” she greets, but it comes out halfway like a sigh.

“Hey yourself,” Betty replies, sinking into the seat opposite. “How…are you?”

“Is that your polite, _Betty-way_ of asking me why I look like the Bride of Frankenstein?” Toni throws back dryly.

“I did not say that,” she replies seriously, though up close, the circles under Toni’s eyes do appear very dark, uncharacteristic for a person normally so dedicated to her REM cycle. “So…what happened, Monday night? Where’d you go?”

“Oh. That.”

A strange look crosses Toni’s face, and something about it sends a frustration down Betty’s spine, and suddenly she’s speaking without thinking. “Veronica said you left with someone,” she blurts out, regretting it almost at once.

“Veronica?” Toni sits up straight, stretching out her legs to put them back on the ground. “Who the hell is Veronica?”

“Some girl from the party,” Betty mumbles.

“Well, I don’t know her, so she obviously doesn’t know me,” Toni says defensively, throwing Betty another one of those wary looks she hates. “That’s not what happened—okay, I come out of the bathroom, right? And like, immediately I’m cornered by this redheaded she-demon, who makes it very clear that I’m not welcome at the pretty, fancy party, and insists I leave. Fucked up, right? I was so mad, and I looked for you first, but I just had to get out of there.”

Something about Toni’s voice rings a bit off, but truthfully, the story doesn’t at all sound far-fetched. Betty would probably have the same reaction. She might’ve not waited so long to text back, in her shoes, but Toni has always been notoriously slippery and thus not the easiest to get a hold of.

“Redheaded she-demon?” Betty repeats numbly, knowing at once who this must be.

Toni rolls her eyes. “I’ll give you three guesses what her name was, and the first two don’t count.”

“Unbelievable,” Betty huffs, more to herself. “That whole family is so irredeemable.”

“I know,” her friend agrees, and then an odd kind of smile appears on her face; Betty instantly recognizes it as the impish look that directly precedes a scheme of some kind. “Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

“A plan?”

“Yeah, a plan. The Blossoms deserve to be knocked down a peg, especially after…everything. Just—leave it to me, okay? Trust me,” she says clearly, her eyes glittering.

Betty opens her mouth to say she _of course does_  when Fangs and Sweet Pea appear out of nowhere, their large forms draping the table in shadow. “Hey Betty,” Sweet Pea says, and then looks at Toni more closely, his eyes bulging. “Christ, Toni, you look awful.”

“Fuck you too,” Toni snaps at once, her lip curling as she sinks lower in her chair.

“Sleepless in the Southside?” He shoots back, and behind him, Fangs snorts.

“None of your business, you overgrown garden vegetable,” she mutters, looking away.

Sweet Pea stares curiously at her, possibly for a moment just longer than necessary, before turning to face Betty. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Coop,” he says, grinning down at her, even though it really hasn’t been that long. “Glad to see you’re still alive.”

“She’s been locked in a tower by Father Gothel,” Toni offers in, grinning mischievously at Betty, who rolls her eyes.

“Well, you’ll let me know if you need rescuing, right?” Sweet Pea asks, and Betty’s starting to think for however many times Toni has insisted he’s moved on from the idea of her, he hasn’t totally given up.

“Sweet Pea, the only reason a girl would call _you_ would be if she couldn’t find a ladder,” Toni says in a sugary voice, and Fangs snickers loudly.

“I think I should say hi to Polly. Is she here?” Betty asks Toni, deciding she wants out of this conversation as Sweet Pea rounds on Fangs and shoves him back a step.

Toni throws her head towards the back of the room. “She’s in the office, I think,” she says, and Betty nods in thanks, says she’ll be back, and scoots her chair out, making for the doorway behind the bar.

She finds Polly spread over a few piles of paper, her leather jacket slung over a cheap gray felt chair, a rare headband pushing back her long blonde hair to keep it out of her face. It makes her look startlingly gentile, somehow, all in the simple act of replacing her usual black leather with a blue headband.

Betty leans up against the frame and knocks, and Polly glances up from her papers. “Hey,” she greets, in a surprised, but not unfriendly voice. “Didn’t think I’d see you this week.”

Crossing the room and deflating into the chair across from the desk, Betty throws her sister a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Polly purses her lips and looks back down at the papers. “Just thought you were busy leaving it to Beaver,” she says, her tone dropping an octave, into something much more frigid.

She blows the air out of her lungs. “Not you too,” Betty says, giving her sister a slightly pointed and perhaps slightly more pleading look.

Clearly considering her words, Polly leans in over her elbows, her expression polishing off. “Look, I’m sorry, Betty. I just don’t understand why you’re going along with this. I mean, do you like being there? Doesn’t it creep you out, all the… _pastel?”_

“Of course I don’t like being there,” Betty snaps immediately, frustrated that Polly would ask that. There’s an itch in her fingers, traveled there all the way from the clenching in her chest. “I’m well past the point where I expect Mom and Dad to get back together, even though they’re both too stubborn to give each other what they want, which is a divorce. But I’m not going to be the catalyst for that, okay, Pol? If I don’t mediate, if I don’t find a middle ground, they’re going to fight over me, _legally._ I know it. And I can’t handle that. So this is the best option, just waiting it out.”

Polly stares at her—or, perhaps it’s not quite a stare. It’s a moving thought, flickered back and forth in the way her sister’s large, lamp-like eyes trace over her.

Betty wonders if she sees through the words.

It’s not, truthfully, a total lie—in fact, Hal and Alice Cooper have been smugly lauding their equal unwillingness to be the first one to crack and actually move for a divorce for most of Betty’s living memory, but ever since Polly decided neither a high school degree nor anything further was for her, it’s been like a rattling kettle on the stove between her parents, threatening to scream, and Betty has zero desire to be the inspiration for and pawn within that final feud.

But it’s also not the whole truth, either.

Because Betty has decided she’s going to go to college. Because Betty doesn’t know what she wants except that it’s out, and she’s never fully been able to put that into words, especially not in front of her sister, who lately has done nothing but double down on her commitments to the town.

Polly made her choices.

After all, Betty has the flowers on her walls, but Polly’s always been the one with roots.

“Besides,” Betty adds, not sure what to make of her sister’s expression and also not wanting to fester in the thought, “you don’t want to be caught agreeing with _Mom,_ do you?”

At that, Polly laughs, and the moment breaks.

“Never,” she says lightly. “And I see what you mean. I get it, I think. But—the minute you start thinking the Kool-Aid tastes good, call me, because that means they’re about to body snatch you.”

“You’re really mixing your references,” Betty says, chuckling, and her sister returns the grin. Betty’s eyes then finally leave Polly, dancing over the rest of the office, the papers stacked on the desk. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“The books.” Polly sighs heavily, like this is a project far wider reaching than she might’ve been initially prepared for. “The last guy they had doing this was siphoning off money for himself, and if he didn’t skip town and leave this all to me, Keller probably could’ve nailed the Wyrm for the stolen couple years worth of back taxes.”

“Like Capone,” Betty muses playfully.

“A _little_ less glamorous,” she replies dryly, and then draws her pointer finger across the papers thoughtfully. “I don’t really know what I’m doing, though. I mean, I’ve done the reading and the googling and I at least was able to figure out which pots this guy was cherry picking the money from, but…I just don’t really know how this became my job.”

“I know why. You were always so good at math,” Betty says softly, working backwards through the years of her and Polly at that little round yellow kitchen table, their homework fanned out around them; Betty would correct the grammar on Polly’s essays, and Polly would check Betty’s numbers.

“Teenage Mutant Serpent Accountant,” she adds in a quip, to the response of a loud snort.

“Watch who you’re calling mutant around here, ye of little plaid,” her sister says, giving Betty’s plain white t-shirt a clean, sweeping look.

“It’s not my fault the Serpent dress code was taken from an archived Springsteen music video,” she says in response, raising an eyebrow at Polly’s own outfit, draped in dark cotton and black jewelry.

“Righteous be the denim-clad proletariat,” Polly says teasingly, eyes dancing. A knock then sounds on the door, followed by the approaching presence of a couple of dark figures that Betty recognizes as some of the older Serpents.

“Rounding everyone up,” says the long-haired Serpent that Betty knows has a ridiculous nickname she can’t remember at the moment. “Meetin’s starting.”

“Got it,” Polly says, pushing her chair back, standing up, and rounds the desk. She pulls her jacket from the back of Betty’s chair and shoulders into it, her hands immediately coming up and shaking her hair free from the headband. Betty watches the transformation take place, and then looks away.

When she glances back, Polly throws her an expectantly acquiescent kind of look. “You should probably go,” she says, but both girls know it’s not really a request. “Serpents only, you know how it is.”

Betty gets to her feet, and something must be reading on her face, because Polly quickly adds, “It’s so boring, I think we’re just going over a stupid fight some newbie picked. And Fogarty’s probably going to try petitioning for funds to take carpentry classes at Carson again, but it’s not like we have the money any more this month than we did last.”

She knows she can’t say that it’s a relief to hear the Serpents are still basically broke—knows that would be a dangerously rude thing to say, even to her own sister—but the minute a small-town gang gets flushed with cash, she’ll start to worry about where it’s coming from.

It’ll be a question she won’t want the answer to—that much, she knows.

Polly is still talking, guiding Betty out of the little back room office, oblivious to that thought gnawing away in her little sister’s stomach. “But I don’t know, obviously _tearing the sleeves off a jean jacket_ isn’t really a skill to put on a resume. He likes building things, and we should be supporting that. But we also don’t exactly have a slush fund set up, and if Fogarty gets what he wants, then there’s going to be ten other requests we can’t afford. We go round and round.”

She pulls to a stop just outside the barrier that leads into the main hub of the bar, her heels clicking. Finally noticing the faraway look on Betty’s face, she puts two hands on her sister’s shoulders. “See? It’s totally boring stuff.”

Betty doesn’t budge.

“I just don’t really want to go back to Dad’s,” Betty sighs eventually, after Polly gives her a long look that clearly says _time to go._ “Or Mom’s. Especially since that would definitely raise the DEFCON number. Can I just…stay in the office for a while? I’ll keep the door shut and put on headphones.”

Polly looks apologetic, and Betty knows that’s the answer. “We trust you, Betty. You know that. You’re one of us, but…”

 _But you’re not_ really _one of us hangs between them,_ and both of them look unsure what to say.

A little voice reminds her: _You made choices too, remember?_

Finally, Polly settles on, “It’s just the rules.”

“I get it,” Betty grumbles, pushing her hands into her pant pockets in order to keep them contained.

“Go to the library,” Polly suggests, trying to sound helpful through the apologetic smile she gives.

“For six hours? I don’t have work till this evening,” she says, in something of a whine, not bothering to mention she’s _already_ been killing time there nearly every day of the summer thus far. Polly looks at a loss for words, and Betty gives up, huffing and throwing up a hand in goodbye and breaking for the side door.

The last thing she feels like doing is leaving through a room full of silent Serpents, all watching her go.

She’s greeted by a blast of hot, sticky June air nearly at once, and she squints against the sun, immediately seized by the desire to peel all of her clothes off and dive headfirst into the waters of Sweetwater River.

The trees beyond the bar are lush from the spring rains, vibrant, almost virulent green, and the total effect is oversaturated color mixing with the bright sky, and all Betty wants to do is find somewhere air conditioned and somewhere lowly lit to cool off.

She mounts her motorcycle, already facing further southern roads, but as she pulls on her helmet, she knows going to the Southside library will be a further exercise in patience with the heat. Her legs already burn through the black denim of her jeans.

And she’s already so recently picked through the new releases; it’s one thing to curl up in a sweater doing homework on a blustery day, it’s another to sit uselessly sweltering, unable to focus. She just wants a quiet, non-obtrusive place to read.

She turns her bike around.

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“We _have_ to stop meeting like this,” drawls a dry, amused voice from somewhere nearby.

Betty looks up in her big plush arm chair, her knees tucked up under, her book comfortably digging into the skin of her arm, and sees Jughead standing next to her, a couple of books under his own.

He grins lazily at her, wearing a slightly grass-stained black and white baseball shirt, a small speck of diamond dirt rubbed against his cheek, as if he’s just come fresh from another round of practice.

“How long did you stand there thinking of that before you said it?” Betty asks, her lips twitching.

“Only a few minutes,” Jughead replies breezily, waving a hand at her as he flops into the armchair beside her own. He deposits his pile of books onto the little end table between them. “Do you think this is this one of those things where as soon you see something once, you can’t stop seeing it everywhere? Frequency illusion?”

“It’s just coincidence,” Betty says, shaking her head. “No—it’s not even that. I’m just spending more time than I used to on this side of town. That’s all.”

He makes an indistinguishable noise in the back of his throat. “Well, at least we’re even, now.”

She tilts her head at him, and he adds, “I mean, I was at Pop’s and the baseball diamond first, and now you were at Veronica’s and the library first. Two for two.”

Betty stifles a snort and turns her eyes back onto her book, though she’s not looking at any paragraph in particular. “This isn’t a game.”

“You say that to the athlete,” he reminds her, and she glances back at him, this time closing her book against her lap, her attention dropping onto his selection of books.

He sits very still out of the corner of her eye, as if perhaps waiting to see what she’ll do, if she’s going to coldly imply she’d like him to leave her alone or if the other night had actually offered something of a fresh start.

She inhales, and makes another choice.

“You didn’t strike me as a Joyce Carol Oates fan,” she says, scanning a few of the titles.

He throws her a slightly nonplussed look. “I’ve read a few of her books. Liked most of them. But these ones are for my sister, I’m just picking them up for her,” he says, patting the books as if they were a somewhat beleaguered old family dog. “She’s entering her transient, wannabe-beat-punk, woe-be-gone aesthetic. Black turtlenecks, et al. I think she’s still a little too young to read most of Oates’ work, but I don’t know, that’s really not my place to dictate.”

“How old is she?” Betty asks, selecting the top book and flipping through it.

“Thirteen,” he sighs wearily, like this fact is causing him a fair amount of anguish to even utter aloud.

“I started reading Oates when I was thirteen,” Betty says quietly. _“Foxfire,_ the one that’s about a doomed girl gang. Was really…informative, for that time of my life.”

Something of an understatement, but that’s a story she doesn’t feel like saying, and she’s not even sure why she mentioned it. However, Jughead might pick up on what’s unsaid there anyway, as he narrows his eyes on her in a studious kind of way and his whole expression softens.

She’s not sure if she feels vulnerable under that kind of look, or if it’s a relief to know someone can read between the lines she’s too exhausted by repeating, but either way, it’s not a thought she wants to sit with.

“But if you say your sister is veering as close to a punk phase as someone in your tax bracket can technically ever get,” Betty says, pulling in a gulp of air, “I have a book she’ll probably like.”

Jughead raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Betty echoes, getting to her feet and gesturing for him to do the same. “Come on.”

He tucks his books back under his arm and follows her towards the autobiography section, which admittedly takes Betty a moment to find once she remembers she doesn’t know the Northside library like the back of her hand, unlike it’s counterpart.

She whispers the letter S under her breath in short repetition as she scans the shelves, sinking into a squat as she traces the alphabet further downwards. “Smith, here we go,” she says, popping back upright and handing Jughead the black paperback book.

He looks down at it, flipping it over to the back to read the synopsis. “Patti Smith, huh?”

 _“Just Kids,”_ Betty sighs fondly, smiling down at the book. “If your sister is as into black turtlenecks as much as you say she is, she’ll love this.”

“I think you’re right,” he says, chuckling once and then glancing back up to meet her eyes. “Thanks, Betty,” he adds, in a somewhat softer voice, something much more colored with an emotion she doesn’t recognize.

She attempts to shrug it off. “Just don’t take all the credit if she falls in love with it.”

“But I can blame you if she hates it, right?” He asks, grinning when she reaches forward and whacks him lightly on the arm.

They stand there for a long moment, the secondary silence suddenly, palpably, settling in between them, a full doorway of thick air.

This is the moment she goes; the moment when she makes her excuses and returns to the world within her book. And yet, her mouth doesn’t open, and her feet don’t move.

And then Jughead sucks in a long breath and says, “Hey, listen.”

She thinks his cheeks might burn a little in the interim pause following that, but he keeps going. “I know that Arch has agreed he owes me a full pizza out of gratitude for Monday night—so, I mean, logically, he owes you one too,” he says, and Betty knots her eyebrows, unsure where he’s going with this.

He scratches at his neck, as if her expression has thrown him back off. “Probably in perpetuity,” he mumbles quickly. “But—well, he and I usually have a movie and pizza night every couple of weeks…and, you should…come, to one, sometime.”

Betty doesn’t say anything for a moment, unsure what to make of what might be nerves in his voice, or at least visible awkwardness.

“I’m not at my dad’s all that often,” Betty says finally, only realizing belatedly that’s an answer that somehow feels more out of habit than anything else.

He nods. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m just saying, Archie definitely owes you for what you did for him, and normally his debts are either repaid in pizza or manual labor. I usually pick pizza.”

She leans up against the bookshelf, focusing on lacing and unlacing her fingers. When she looks up, she realizes Jughead is watching the motion too.

Betty can’t help the thought—the idea of a simple movie night with pizza is somehow appealing, despite who the company would be. She’s not a fan of Jughead’s other friend, and she doesn’t really know Archie any better, but he’d been charming even through the drunk kicking and screaming, or lack thereof.

And Jughead isn’t quite so annoying as she’d initially decided, if she’s being honest with herself.

 _In fact,_ a voice threatens to argue.

“Maybe if somehow the stars align,” she hears herself saying, if only to cut off that small voice in her thoughts, though she doubts any kind of movie night will ever actually come to fruition. “On scheduling, I mean.”

Jughead licks his lips. “Yeah. If the stars align.”

They look at one another.

And then, with a jolt, he jerks fully upright, digging into his pocket for his phone to check the time. “Shit, I gotta go,” he says, running a quick hand through his thick, dark hair. “I’m picking up my sister from day camp in Greendale and there’s usually traffic,” he offers in explanation, even though he doesn’t owe her one.

For a blink, he doesn’t budge, weighing the Patti Smith book in his hands. “Thanks again for this,” he says.

“No problem. Let me know if she likes it,” Betty replies, throwing him a small smile, which he returns at once.

“Will do.” He turns to go, but spins back on his heel a few feet away. “And, um—you know, let me know if things will work out. Astrologically speaking.”

She can’t help the way the smile worms into a full grin, and settles into a deeper lean against the bookshelf, her arms folding, almost instinctually. “Sure,” she says quietly.

He throws her one last smile, and then disappears behind another bookshelf.

Betty stands there for another beat, her crossed arms slowly uncurling, staring at nothing. And then she pushes off from her post, shaking her head to herself and intending to return to the worlds beyond the pages, when her own phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.

**_Forgive me for not waiting three days to call and I realize it’s too late to technically label this brunch, but I’m in desperate need of caloric retribution. Feel like joining me at Pop’s?_ **

She has a feeling there’s only one person it could ever be, and after tapping in her pass code and pulling up the text, she sees that it’s indeed Veronica, who had sent her a text with her name in it on Monday night to trade numbers.

Betty hadn’t bothered logging her into a contact, thinking Veronica would wake up on Tuesday and wonder why in the hell she’d bothered with Betty at all and write it off as drunken impulse, but here Veronica is, texting Betty once more as if they’ve been friends for years.

She’s starting to sense that this just might be Veronica’s actual personality, and considers her options.

Obviously, she could stay here with the annoyingly comfortable armchair and book, as originally planned. For all of her pushiness, Veronica seems like a smart girl; if Betty phrased her _no_ just right, Veronica would probably give up on her strange desire to befriend Betty by the week’s end. Betty could go back to what is quickly becoming routine.

But—that’s not what she wants to do.

Truthfully, she’s been spending not just a lot of time alone, but a lot of time alone in libraries, and it’s starting to feel a bit isolating. And it’s only the first week of the season—had it been like this last summer?

She tries to remember how she’d gotten through the long days of sun and shadows before, and when the answer comes to her, it just makes her stomach sink.

Because the answer is Toni.

The summer before had felt like the last time she had been fully present, hadn’t gotten into the habit of slipping off for hours with flimsy excuses for where she’d been.

Hadn’t gotten so busy with the Serpents.

Suddenly, Betty wants to get the hell out of this library. She stares down at Veronica’s text.

_That sounds nice. See you there._

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.

.

She experiences a strong force of same-day déjà vu as she enters Pop’s and sees Veronica waving her fingers over at Betty at once, but unlike Toni, she can guess that Veronica would never be caught dead with her feet on any kind of table.

“You made it!” Veronica says cheerfully, immediately offering her an onion ring from her little red diner basket.

Betty takes one and bites into it, if only because she’s realized that she honestly has no idea what to say to the girl across from her, and is already regretting coming here. _What were you even thinking? You two have nothing in common._

“Thanks for coming and sparing me from the total despair of eating fried foods by my lonesome,” Veronica says baldly, her tongue quite literally in cheek. “I just _had_ to get out of the house and from my mother’s terrible decorator—we’ve literally been in the apartment they _already_ renovated for less than a month, and she’s now decided the kitchen reeks of 2000s disdain and it must be redone. Which is incredible, even for her, but she’s already bored, I guess.”

Betty can’t help but think that Veronica is the type of person Toni has been waiting her entire life to meet and has a twenty-page dissertation already ready to go about classist banality and wasteful spending, and some of this might read on Betty’s face, because Veronica finally appears to take a breath of air in between words, and with it—stills, one of her fingers ceasing its circling around the top of her coffee mug.

“I sound like such a brat, don’t I,” Veronica says quietly, after the moment stretches out between them. She closes her eyes, and for an instant, an impossible instant—Betty think that Veronica might be embarrassed, something she might’ve not considered an option based on her interactions with the girl thus far.

And then Veronica looks at her again. “I’m sorry, I know I can be a lot, and I’m still adjusting to small town life. And…that sounds bad too, right?”

“Maybe,” Betty says honestly, looking at the other girl across the table in dawning understanding. “But we all have our crosses,” she adds, in a lightly teasing lilt.

Veronica laughs, rubbing at her arms. She takes another long moment to gather her thoughts, which seems uncharacteristic of her. “Can I level with you, Betty?”

Betty nibbles on the rest of her onion ring, nodding.

“Last year, my father was arrested for embezzlement,” Veronica says, sighing. Betty freezes, mid chew. “It looked like my family had lost everything—our Central Park-adjacent apartment, my lifestyle, even my clothes. And I learned—how some people see you when you no longer have anything financial to offer them. What it’s like to be the outsider,” she adds, looking at Betty in that knowing way, the one that makes her think Veronica is quite adept at doublespeak.

Veronica takes a rallying breath. “The charges were eventually dropped, and the real culprit was caught, of course, but even though we’d gotten our fiscal capital returned, social capital isn’t something you can ever really earn back, not in our circles.

“My father wanted a fresh start, and I did too. But we moved here after my school year was done, and Riverdale still had a few weeks of the semester, and I didn’t know anyone, or anything about this town. I don’t even know how to _drive,_ I never had to in the city. So I spent…most of that time alone in the apartment, or sometimes with just my mother. It was awful. Just was so…”

“Isolating,” Betty says softly, somewhat surprised to hear her own voice.

Veronica stares at her, her lips pressed into a thin line that might be described as relieved. “Exactly. Isolating.”

“I…understand that feeling,” Betty says, hooking her two pointer fingers together, thinking of her father’s house and how she doesn’t know what to do with herself when she’s there. Not that she knows any better at her mother’s house, either. “I have that candle burning on both ends.”

The two girls meet each other’s eyes.

“I met Kevin at the mall,” Veronica says a moment later. “And he’s been great—he helped me throw the party, helped me meet a few people…but I don’t want my last year of high school-slash-first year of public school to be a repeat performance, Betty. I’m done with the nastiness of social psychology.”

She doesn’t have to say it; and suddenly, Betty knows why Veronica latched onto her on Monday, what she saw in Betty that night and thus why she texted her again, why she decided the best course of action was to jump into a friendship like a cannonball.

She’s lonely too—and with that, realizes Veronica understands Betty, and Betty understands Veronica.

“You know what,” Betty says, pressing both of her hands flat against the diner table. “I think we need milkshakes.”

Veronica grins.

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.

.

On Friday night, Betty packs up her duffle bag, stares around the pink and floral bedroom, and closes the door.

Her father waits for her at the bottom of the stairs, looking despondent. “Drive safe,” he says. “And, hey—next week we can get started on the car?”

Betty nods, stifling a little bit of excitement. She does love working on engines, and thus far she’s only ever done it in school or with a little bit of tweaking on her own bike, so this will be the first time she’s ever gotten to stretch her legs with a real project.

After a somewhat awkward hug goodbye, she straddles her motorcycle, shoves her bag into the back compartment, and glances up and down the block.

Dusk is lingering tonight, the sky stubbornly returning to fade to black, but a few stars have begun peeking out all the same, and the moon is wide and full. Cicadas chirp across her ears.

She shivers, and couldn’t name if it she tried, but something about the tree-lined streets and all the garden hedges reads quite differently under the moonlight.

But she doesn’t dwell. She tears off into the night, taking the highway for time, and by the time she pulls up to her mother’s little yellow house, only a few lights appear to be on.

She keys in through the door, relishing in the familiarity of the cozy house, the pictures on the walls, the spotless fervor by which her mother keeps clean, the direct, somewhat narrow floor plan. It feels especially small after nearly a full week at her father’s large, viscerally vacant house.

Thinking she hears voices, Betty follows the sounds down the hall towards her bedroom, growing louder as she approaches. She pushes her door open, and at once, the voices fall silent. Polly and Toni look up, both of them sitting on the same side of Betty’s bed, and for a long moment, no one speaks.

“Toni? What are you doing here?” Betty asks, for lack of anything else to break the ice.

Polly and Toni exchange glances, and then her sister is standing. “I’ll let you guys talk,” she says, brushing past Betty and offering her a thin smile before disappearing and quietly closing the bedroom door behind her.

Betty drops her duffle bag onto the floor, taking in the rumpled sheets on her bed, the glass of water on the end table, still dewy with condensation on the sides. “Did you eat all the porridge, too, Goldilocks?” She asks finally, tilting her head.

Toni’s smile is just as tight as Polly’s. “Hey,” she says finally, cryptically unwilling to offer anything else up.

“Have you been sleeping here?” Betty asks, her tone losing its glinted mirth, taking Polly’s abandoned seat on the bed next to Toni.

“Just since Tuesday night,” Toni says, in a small voice that appears to be struggling to remain casual. And then, “My mom kicked me out again.”

Betty stares at her friend, her eyebrows knotting, and instinctually she reaches forward and gathers her up in a hug. Toni hesitates in her arms for only a moment before relaxing, squeezing her back, and then pulling away.

“What happened?”

Toni rolls her shoulders back, her eyes tracking in small movements on the wall, and they look nearly glassy in the dusk light. She seems to be trying to find the words, and at once struggling to keep them at bay.

“It’s stupid,” is all she says, at first, in a hardened voice. She sighs. “It’s—just a big misunderstanding. That’s all. Or, I don’t know, she’s been looking for another fight to pick lately, so I shouldn’t really be surprised. I told Polly, and, well, you’ve been staying on the Northside this week, so she offered your room and Alice said it was okay, even if she wasn’t thrilled…”

She knows it’s an inappropriate moment to feel a sting at the fact that her best friend told her sister about her family troubles before she told Betty herself, but it happens anyway. She folds her hands in her lap to keep them stiff.

“I’m going to go stay with my uncle tomorrow, I’ve got it all worked out now. It’s actually convenient, because he already wanted me to work a few shifts at the pawn shop anyway,” she’s saying firmly, bringing Betty back into the moment. “So it’s for the best, you know?”

She fixes Betty with an optimistic kind of smile, clearly hoping this to be the agreed upon answer and for Betty to encourage it as _yes, it’s so for the best._

“Toni…” Her friend flinches slightly at the confusion in Betty’s tone. “Why didn’t you tell me? I saw you on Wednesday—I mean, wait, you told me to come to the Wyrm.”

Toni scratches at her eye, and glances away. “I was _going_ to tell you there, I just didn’t want all my dirty laundry aired in front of everyone. Sweet Pea and Fangs showed up, remember, and you went to go see Polly?”

“Okay…but you could’ve called me after, or…”

“Well, you were on the other side of town,” Toni says quietly, and Betty realizes that this is the real answer.

She blinks, briefly at a loss for words. “It’s not that far away. I would’ve come here, if you needed me. It’s ten miles, at most.”

Toni’s lips twist, meeting Betty’s look once more. Something like guilt wracks across her face, and then she shrugs, as if trying to clear it off.

“Feels farther,” she says finally, in a bruised, buried voice.

Betty opens her mouth to reply, but realizes halfway through that she has none. She thinks that this is sounding very sudden, she’s only been at her father’s house for a week—but something in Toni’s voice makes her pause, if she’s speaking from somewhere quieter, more unearthed, like a thought that’s been seeded with cupped hands.

She and Toni stare at one another, but before another, and darker, thought can rear its ugly head, the bedroom door opens again, and Polly appears at it, holding two identical blue and yellow boxes of spaghetti.

“Mom called, she’s working late, so I’m making dinner. We have the option of pasta,” she says blithely, holding up one of the boxes, rattling it, “and pasta.” She shakes the other box, and throws them an expectant smile. “Pick your poison.”

Betty and Toni exchange one last look, the moment breaks, and then Betty’s shoulders sag with an exaggerated breath. “What- _ever_ will we decide,” she says, her tone dripping.

Toni throws her a grin, her neck and eyes rolling in the same motion, agreeing to play the game.

“You know what they say,” Toni sighs, and looks at Betty. “Life is _full_ of hard choices.”

.

.

.

While Polly strains the pasta water and warms the tomato sauce on the stove, Toni and Betty pull themselves out of the bedroom and prepare the couch for a night of television. The TV they have is fairly new, bought straight from Toni’s uncle at the pawn shop, and Betty fiddles with attaching her laptop to the screen until she can pull up the recent episodes of Project Runway.

“Oh my god, not this show again,” Toni says, flopping down onto the couch as Heidi Klum’s luminous face fills the living room.

“What else were you expecting?” Polly calls from the kitchen, in a clear, amused voice.

“It’s tradition,” Betty reminds her friend, joining her on the couch. Toni sighs despairingly, but obviously for show, as she’s grinning broadly.

“It’s trash, but it’s our trash,” her sister says fondly, rounding the corner and delivering the girls with two steaming bowls of pasta and red sauce. She disappears to retrieve her own bowl, then squeezes herself on the other side of Betty, bumping her with her hip playfully until they make room for her. Betty leans forward, presses the space bar with her finger, and they all settle in for the show.

Halfway through, Toni’s eyes have threatened to become permanently affixed to the back of her head.

“God, even Sweet Pea has more fashion sense than this girl. What is she thinking? A denim swimsuit?”

“Hey, don’t give him ideas. He’d probably wear that if he knew it was an option,” Betty quips between bites.

“I’m gonna tell him you said that,” Toni snickers, her eyes narrowed impishly. “It’ll either kill his crush on you or increase it ten fold. Will report back.”

“I’ll hold my breath,” Betty mumbles, desiring a sudden change in subject. Toni likes to make jokes about how Betty and Sweet Pea were such a poor match just because he needs to wake up to the reality that he’s in love with Fangs, but regardless of if there is truth to that, she just wishes it would stop coming up.

There’s something about adolescent friend groups that gets deeply nepotistic if left unchecked, or at least socially incestuous—just because someone is _there,_ does not mean they are obligated to fiddle around with. She’d always felt like, to Sweet Pea, Betty is just there. He was nice enough, but she doesn’t want _anyone_ to distract her, beyond already thinking he’s a hot head with a streak for overcompensation.

And she’s tired of the discussion. She’s not dating anyone, anyway.

At that moment, onscreen, the models are finally ready to walk down the runway, so Toni drops it and re-engages with the show she claims to hate.

“Oh my god, that is so ugly,” Polly says as someone’s haute-couture camouflage bikini struts across the screen.

Betty’s phone vibrates with texts from Veronica, who has sent photos of herself posing coquettishly in two cocktail dresses in all the casual flamboyance that only she seems capable of.

She taps out a response: _Context?_

 ** _Daddy’s attending a silly fundraiser I’m also obligated to rear my head at,_ ** Veronica types back. **_Have to pick a dress._**

_The horror!_

_I **know, I know! But I’m such a winter, and this party is full summer. My closet is barren of appropriate seersucker and I don’t know what to wear.**_

And then, a moment later, ** _Poor little rich girl._**

Betty snickers under her breath; this is, after all, one of the things she figured out she likes about Veronica, her willingness to call herself out.

“Who are you texting?” Toni asks, either her laughter or the bright light from Betty’s phone apparently having caught her attention.

“Just my dad,” Betty lies immediately, and doesn’t know why.

That’s the second lie. She does know why.

Beyond what she’d already said about her, Toni would absolutely hate Veronica on principle, and would be likely baffled to hear of Betty willingly engaging in conversation with a girl like a Lodge, and that’s just not an argument Betty feels like defending herself against.

Veronica sends another text, this time with another third dress option, this one a deep, luxurious cobalt blue.

**_I can’t decide. Pick one?_ **

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: [silver soul](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=njbmwfndFH4) by beach house, [wild heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BR47A0XfWPg) by stevie nicks, and [floating](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hdHbJErF_V8) by julee cruise. 
> 
> guys---i am so blown away by the response to this fic. the support and kindness you guys have shown me, especially in such early stages of a story, are really immeasurably wonderful to receive. i honestly used to psych myself out as a writer, but this fandom's encouragement has meant the world for finding a voice i'm comfortable in. 
> 
> and i'm also really happy that people are appreciating more than just bughead in this fic---i've gotten a lot of positive or curious reviews about the relationships the characters have with their parents, about veronica, and even about toni, who especially when i posted her introductory chapter was public enemy number one. 
> 
> this is always a bughead love story at the end of the day, but i really want this fic to not only have passed the bechdel test early on, but also tell the story of familial relationships and friendships and how they are what make love stories balanced and healthy, too. so i'm just thrilled that people are responding to it!
> 
> on that note, i know this chapter was bughead-lite, but a change has definitely occurred in their relationship, and we'll be hitting a stride of momentum between them soon down the line, promise. and i obviously changed a bit of veronica's backstory, but that's because i don't want (again) plot to take over the story!
> 
> the reviews, as i said, are so greatly appreciated. let me know what you thought. please feed your authors, we're hungry!


	6. Chapter 6

 

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“We’re leaving in ten minutes, I mean it!” He calls, banging on his sister’s door.

“Ten minutes!” JB shouts back in agreement, her voice muffled by the wood. He hears her footsteps padding across the hardwood as she runs from one side of the room to the other.

Jughead shakes his head and pushes off from the wall, pulling his phone from his back pocket. He shoots off a text to Moose, seeing if he wants to meet at the baseball diamond after he gets back from Greendale. His last message, a similar request that went unanswered, blinks back at him, and he sighs, clicking his phone to black.

He’d been able to practice in the batting cages on his own the other day, but what he really needs to do is perfect his pitching, which is a bit of an exhausting endeavor taken up on one’s lonesome; a bag of balls thrown at a mound doesn’t get too far without a second set of hands. If he doesn’t hear from Moose by the time he drops JB off, he’ll have to ask Archie.

He kills time waiting for his sister by shoving his water bottle, dusty mitt, and baseball cap into his sports duffle, glancing around the room for anything else he might need. And then he spots it—the pile of books JB had ordered from the library, topped by little black Patti Smith book Betty had recommended. He shoves his keys into his pocket, shoulders on the duffle, and grabs the pile of books, moving down the hall to knock once more on his sister’s bedroom door.

“You said I had ten minutes!” JB cries, her voice a bit pitched.

 _Seven of which have definitely passed_ , he thinks to himself, shaking his head. “I know, you still have a few minutes. I just have your library books, I forgot to give them to you the other day. Can I come in?”

His sister calls an affirmation through the door, and he enters to a room full of chaos, clothes strewn every which way across the floor. The room had been cleaned not even four days ago, but JB makes quick work of the only thing next to godliness.

He raises an eyebrow, making a wide step over what inexplicably is her down winter jacket, pulled out for the month of June. He pulls up to a stop next to her bed, casting one last look around the room.

“Shut up,” JB says pointedly, before he can get a word in edgewise.

“I didn’t say anything,” he sighs.

“I heard you thinking it,” she grumbles, taking the pile of books from his arms. Her dark hair is still damp from the shower, dressed in a black dress with little white flowers, one foot laced into a clunky boot, the other bare. She blinks as she spots the Patti Smith book, an expression of intrigue spreading rapidly across her face. “ _Oh._ What’s this?”

“On Earth, we call it a book,” he returns, grinning.

“Dick,” JB huffs, rolling her eyes at him. She drops the rest of the books onto the bed, holding the autobiography up to the light. “Wait, I’ve heard of this, actually! I keep forgetting to look for it. How’d _you_ know about this book?” She adds, in a somewhat suspicious voice, looking up at him sharply.

Jughead scratches at the back of his neck. “A friend recommended it,” he says, hoping his sister won’t push it further.

A wish ungranted. “A friend?” JB repeats dubiously. “The last book any of your friends read was definitely just a CliffsNotes version of some school-sanctioned book.”

“Can you just finish getting ready? We need to get out the door _before_ the ice caps completely melt,” he says, a bit tightly. JB’s eyes narrow even further, but the stern look on his face seems to propel her into action. She tosses the book onto her backpack and spends the next minute scanning the room for her missing right shoe, and then hops frantically into it when she finds it hiding under a jean jacket.

She pushes her bangs out of her eyes, hurriedly slinging her backpack onto her shoulder and nestling the new book under her elbow. “Okay, I’m ready,” she breathes, and Jughead sighs, but he’s already budgeted for his sister moving slowly, so by the time they make it down to the truck in the garage, they’re actually still on schedule.

He tosses his duffle into the back bed as his sister slides into the passenger’s side, buckling herself up, and then they’re pulling out and onto the long driveway. JB wastes no time fiddling with the aux cord, and then the opening crescendo of _Baba O’Riley_ bursts through the crackly speakers.

“Jug, the speakers seriously suck on this car,” JB whines, rolling down her window. “You need to get them replaced. Though I don’t even know why you even like driving this thing, anyway.”

“This _thing_ is trustily transporting you to and fro to camp this summer, and this _thing_ would probably not appreciate its self-worth being so unfairly questioned,” Jughead replies as they breeze down past the Mantle house and pull onto the familiar main road.

“Boo hoo,” JB mocks, but she drops the subject.

They both remain quiet until they hit the highway, and JB rolls up her window with the crank as the wind buffers and breaks around the truck. The road is fairly empty, having been freed of the mass exodus of the early morning commuters, and they’re making good time.

“So how are you liking the camp so far? Making friends?” He asks in the silence between the moment when the song ends and JB picks another.

“Am I making friends? God, who are you, Mom?” JB laughs, and then the smile cleanly drops off her face when Jughead’s grip tightens across the wheel. She bites her lip. “Sorry. Uh, it’s going well. We get to pick our classes week by week, which is cool, because everyone gets to try what they want. This week I’m taking a life drawing session, which I really like. I think next week I want to do the creative writing seminar? Or…maybe glass blowing.”

“Glass blowing?” Jughead repeats, a bit incredulously. “Why? Just ask Dad to teach you. That’s a waste of money, paying to learn that.”

“Jug, Dad hasn’t done any of the actual glass work for like…a decade. I doubt he even still knows how,” JB says, waving a hand off at him. He throws her a skeptical look, and she pauses, her fingers running over the ridge of her canvas backpack in her lap.

When she speaks again, her voice has lowered, in that way that makes her seem so much suddenly younger. “I don’t know, I thought it would be cool, or something. If I came back from camp and I had this family skill. I mean, you guys have baseball, but it’s like he and I don’t have anything to talk about anymore.”

It’s a surprisingly honest confession from the most aesthetically sardonic person he knows, and one that makes his jaw tick up as he readjusts his grip on the steering wheel once more. He wants to say something, and doesn’t know what it is.

“It’s not like Dad and I sit around talking about theories of time and space, JB,” he settles on finally. “Not like we talk about anything other than baseball,” he adds, with a bit of a sigh.

JB tucks her hair behind her ears. “Yeah, no, I know. I don’t _care,_ obviously, I’m not five,” she says, her tone edging into something else entirely. “But glass blowing is kind of the family thing, right? A legacy thing. And I just thought it would be useful to know, or whatever. Because of the business. Like, for the factory tour coming up, you know?”

“I get that,” Jughead says, after another long pause. “Yeah, that sounds nice, JB.”

But she’s back to glowering, and doesn’t look at him for the rest of the drive.

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.

JB doesn’t exactly slam the door behind her as they pull up to Greendale High, where the art camp is based during the summer, but the sound comes dangerously close. He thinks he understands her sudden touchiness—after all, he’s been thirteen too, and he’s felt the anguish of remnant childhood mixing with newfound hyperawareness of _aging;_ asking for independence and not knowing what that actually looks like.

And, of course, he’s got the same parents, too, so he’s been through it all; he now sees the lines of his father’s face appearing at the corners of his own mirror sometimes, has stared into the similarly cut eyes of his reflection and wondered if they could shape shift in the same way.

The truck sits milling in the high school parking lot as he pulls up his phone and sees there’s nothing from Moose, so he taps out a request to Archie, who mercifully replies right away and agrees to meet him at the Riverdale baseball diamond.

By the time he makes it back to town, the sun is high in the sky and sweat threatens at his brow. It’s barely an inch into summer, but already proven to be hot and mucky with humidity with no sign of slowing down.

Jughead pulls into the spot next to the Andrews’ truck, and Archie is sitting in the bed of his own pickup, scrolling through his phone with surprising intensity. He barely even glances up as Jughead gets out and grabs his duffle from the back.

“New York Times mobile app?” Jughead asks cheekily, gesturing towards the closely held phone.

Archie doesn’t look up. “Instagram.”

“How’d I not guess that,” Jughead drawls, leaning up against the old Ford so he can peek over Archie’s shoulder and see what he’s scrolling through, which appears to Veronica Lodge’s photo stream. “Ah. Fun. I see you’ve entered the stalking stage of courtship.”

“This is not stalking,” Archie says stubbornly, finally looking up from his phone and letting it drop limply in his lap. “I just happened to find her account, okay?”

Jughead nearly decides on one last crack to end the discussion, but then he spies the open image on the phone, and sees that he recognizes the face in the photo.

It’s Betty, unmistakably in a Pop’s booth, drinking a milkshake. She’s caught mid eye-roll, her lips curved up around the straw, and he has to commend Veronica’s photography skills, apparently.

He’s not quite close enough to read the caption, and so he cranes his neck a little further, squinting—

Archie pulls the phone away, his eyebrows knotted and looking at Jughead like he’s grown a second head, and he realizes he’s been leaning in rather far to get a better look, only a few inches away from Archie’s shoulder, and he suddenly pushes back from the truck.

“Come on, I want to get started before it gets any hotter out,” Jughead says, when he’s gotten a foot away and Archie still hasn’t budged, who shoots him one last curious look before hopping down from the truck bed and tapping his baseball bat over his shoulder.

“It’s already hot out,” Archie sighs, catching up with him. “I get that you need to train, but can’t you wait until this heat wave breaks?”

Jughead shakes his head. “Tryouts are in a little over two weeks. I can’t stop now,” he says, because, truthfully, momentum might be the only thing keeping him going at this point.

“I get it, I get it,” Archie says, though he still doesn’t look thrilled as he squints up at the sky, littered with puffy white clouds. “Your dad going with you? Tryouts are in North Carolina, right?”

“I’m under eighteen, he has to,” he replies, shrugging. “But even if he didn’t, I think he actually wants to go. You know how he is—he loves baseball.”

Archie’s cheek twitches, and he nods, allowing the end of the conversation as they come up on the pitcher’s mound.

Jughead spends a few minutes warming up, stretching his arms across his chest. His right shoulder protests slightly with the burn, but soothe gives way after another minute. He’s never been sure how much stock to put into the old wives’ tale about humidity and resulting achiness, but lately wondered if there’s something to it, or if it’s just placebo.

Archie busies himself by shuffling around the dugout for one of the spare catcher’s helmets, which he finds just in time for Jughead to have finished his stretches. Archie has played impromptu catcher for Jughead so many times over the years that he doesn’t even need stage direction; he just drops into the catching position and beats his fist against the mitt a few times to signal he’s ready.

Jughead sucks in a long breath, and closes his eyes, reveling in the smell of the freshly mowed lawn and red dust lingering under his nose. He counts to three in diamonds, dusts, and grasses.

He hooks his leg up against his stomach, funnels his eyes into Archie’s waiting mitt, and then, in the moment he releases his breath, hurls the baseball down the pitch.

As practiced, he always feels it; the moment the ball leaves his glove, the _whoosh_ of the air vibrating around the traveling object, that extension of his arm breaking off and departing through the curl of his fingers.

 _The ball has to be a part of you,_ his father used to say, when Jughead was little, as they played a slightly more aggravated game of catch than the likes of Norman Rockwell might’ve prepared him for.

_You put your whole body in it, kid. If it doesn’t feel like you’re throwing your own damn hand off, you’re not doing it right._

He blinks the little white ball down. The resounding _whack_ as it meets the soft leather is usually satisfying enough.

He shakes his hand out.

.

.

.

After about an hour of this in repetition, Archie seems to be losing a bit of focus. His best friend can be counted on to always meet for a game of pick up or practice, but like with most things, his concentration does wander if not given a carrot; what is surely the current Mona Lisa of his mind coupled with the heat and drag of the late morning has sapped what’s left of Archie’s attention span.

This becomes increasingly clear when Archie twice tosses the ball back to him not only several feet off from the pitcher’s mound, but also high over his shoulder, in what clearly is an unconscious quarterback’s throw.

“Dude, stop throwing it like that. It’s a baseball, not a football,” Jughead says, shoving his mitt in his back pocket as he jogs over to third base to retrieve the object of miscalculation.

Archie does the closest thing he can to rolling his eyes, which is essentially just a frown. “Well, then call Moose next time you want to practice,” he sighs. “He’s the one on your team.”

“I did,” Jughead says, his fingers instinctively curling around the ball as he picks it up. He spins around, a thought occurring to him. “He didn’t answer. Have you noticed how distinctly _Spy vs. Spy_ he’s been lately?”

 _“Spy vs. Spy?”_ Archie repeats, his nose wrinkling, the reference clearly going over his head.

“Elusive,” Jughead offers, and his friend nods in understanding. “Like, ever since state finals. I remember thinking he was like that on the bus ride back from Albany.”

Archie appears to consider this for a moment, then shrugs. “Yeah, I don’t know. I guess he has been weird. Ask him. Or Reggie, he knows Moose best.”

“Maybe,” Jughead sighs, deciding that if it continues he’ll press it, but privately thinking of all the times he’s been cagey with his own friends and definitely not interested in prying into Moose’s life where he might not want it. “Anyway, do you want to try a bit of hitting? Just for a bit?” He adds hopefully, because Archie shows the telltale signs of imminent weariness.

“You owe me,” Archie mutters, jogging over to where he’d dropped the baseball bat, only a few feet off from the pitcher’s mound.

“Uh, no, you definitely owe _me,_ ” he reminds him, scoffing. “For last Monday, when you made me be the shepherd Moses to your drunken herd.”

“Thought I just had to get you a pizza,” Archie says, a bit indignantly, though he loyally is still gripping the baseball bat, and even gives it a few experimental swings.

“Pizza and practice, there’s an added interest to your debt with me. Oh, and, by the way,” Jughead says, before he can think otherwise, “I told Betty you owed her a pizza too.”

Archie swings the bat particularly hard in surprise, and then looks over, as if he’s heard wrong. “Huh?”

“You owe Betty too,” Jughead says quickly, heat rising against his neck. “I mean, it was her idea to actually carry you inside. And she did half the work. So…logically, she gets a pizza too.”

Archie stares at him. “That was _real?_ I thought I hallucinated that. You mean she was really in my room, and everything?”

“I’m not sure who she took more pity on—you, for being as drunk as you were, or me, for having to deal with it—but, yeah, that happened,” Jughead says, a wry smile crossing his lips at the memory of all her huffing and puffing.

Archie has the decency to look a bit abashed. And confused. “And you offered her pizza? When?”

“I ran into her at the library,” Jughead says slowly, starting to feel annoyed at all these questions. Is it really so absurd a concept? “I told her you were buying me one for the next movie night, because you owed us. So I just…invited her, to make it easier,” Jughead says, and then realizes his mistake as Archie bursts out laughing.

 _“Oh.”_ Archie grins, leaning his weight onto the baseball bat. “Oh. Okay, say no more, Jug.”

Jughead’s mouth twists into a deep frown. “What are you talking about?”

The expression working across Archie’s face is frustrating to behold; something knowing, a look more easily seen on the likes of Reggie than his best friend. If Jughead were to squint, if he were to press himself, he might be able to give that look a name—and he knows he wouldn’t want to hear it.

“When was the last time you invited anyone to a movie night? You haven’t even invited Moose or Reggie in years,” Archie says, his eyebrows raised.

“Moose came to movie night not long ago. _Reggie_ is not allowed anymore,” Jughead clarifies thickly, derision coloring his voice as the memory resurfaces. “Not after he completely ruined _Eyes Wide Shut_ for me.”

“No one got that movie except you, Jug,” Archie points out, grinning now.

“He wouldn’t stop talking about Nicole Kidman’s boobs! To boil down Kubrick’s manifesto just to nudity—” He blows out a frustrated burst of air. “Whatever, that’s not—that’s not my point. Anyway, I seriously doubt Betty is actually going to come. I was just being polite. Alright?”

“Uh huh,” Archie says, throwing him one last sly smirk before jogging off to home plate. “You wanna hit that, or what?”

Jughead balks, half-sure he’s heard Archie wrong. The hell is he even— _“What?”_

Somehow, Archie manages to maintain what must be his first ever poker face. “I said, do you want to hit some runs? You could take a turn with the bat first.”

“I’m not validating that with a response,” Jughead mutters, pulling his mitt out of his back pocket. It’s not worth it to fight Archie on—it was an innocent, friendly invitation. Jughead knows that; and more importantly, he’s sure Betty knows that.

They _can_ be friends, after all. Archie is just baiting him.

Still. If he throws a particularly hard couple of pitches, and if he rather easily strikes Archie out, and if he takes a bit of satisfaction in that, he might find it within himself to admit it.

.

.

.

Next week, he picks up JB from day camp and they roll through back to Riverdale through the typical slog of commuter traffic.

As they mull through the lines of cars, his sister jabbers on about her creative writing seminar, about this cool teacher they have who explained not only the nuance of what problematic means, but what the term “Mary-Sue” means and how it’s usually sexist.

Jughead raises his eyebrows and listens intently, equal parts impressed with the level of discourse and happy to see JB happy, though something claws at this chest, something ticks away in his jaw, and something perhaps like jealousy singes at the edge of his thoughts.

He might not easily announce it, but he’d always liked his English classes too, always cherished the days for creative writing, always squirreled away his graded essays and papers like the other trophies lining his walls, but—sometimes there’s only so much room for one pursuit.

With a jab somewhere underneath his ribs, the summer he was twelve rises up like bile against his throat, as he remembers the time he briefly, childishly, stupidly decided he was going to write a book—remembers he didn’t get very far into it, because it was not only the year his mother left them, it was also the year Jughead realized his father wanted baseball to be more than a game.

But the feeling fades, hearing his sister energetically ramble on about how she’s going to combine her free-form story with the comic book class; if anything, it’s replaced by guilt, because for all they bicker, for all her newly teenage mood has lately been so stereotypically vacillating, he should feel relieved to know his little sister hasn’t lost her drive for creative pursuit, unlike himself.

She apparently hadn’t been able to get into the glass blowing class this week, but was put on the list for the following week, and had been clearly a bit deflated when she’d told Jughead that, so mostly he’s just pleased she got her energy back—especially since today is the day the Jones children take a tour of the family’s glass manufactory, and he thinks JB had been looking forward to impressing their father with sudden applicable knowledge. He’s glad she’s not dwelling on it.

But as he glances at her out of the corner of his peripheral vision, watching her ramble on further how cool she thinks this teacher is, he sees it; the way she throws herself a little too hard into her words, the way her gestures are just slightly exaggerated.

And with that, he nearly wants to cancel the whole thing, postpone till JB doesn’t have that hidden look in her eye.

Instead, he stifles a sigh, and pulls off the road for their exit.

.

.

.

The Jones Family Lore is told as such: Great-Granddad Jones moved to town a year or two after it was founded by the Blossoms, having finally quote-unquote _won_ the court case for the land grab of the maple forest from the Delaware Native American tribe. He’d come up state from Manhattan, fleeing from the violent apartment in which his Italian mother and Irish father fought regularly, and looking to make his fortune.

_American dreams, et al._

He came upon the Blossom Brothers in a seedy pub in Buffalo, who regaled him with their business plans, their once-again quote-unquote _lawfully just_ saga for the money hidden in maple trees, their goals for the grove, the desire to replicate what they’d seen up in Canada and bottle molten amber.

They just needed partners. They needed processing. They needed to literally bottle their syrup, they needed someone to make the glass jugs they wanted, rather than the typical ceramic.

Ceramicists were easy to find before the Depression, but the Blossoms wanted panache to their product; they wanted to do something different in the game, and sell their syrup in clear glass to show it off. The only hitch—the fact that there wasn’t an established glass blower for a hundred miles.

And Great-Granddad Jones saw his fortune right then and there; and thus, like most things, it began with a lie.

He claimed he was their man, claimed it was an old family trade back in Italy, that his mother’s Venetian heritage breathed the skill into his lungs like air—of course, the only true part of the story was her birthplace, but there’s a traceable love of wordsmithing in the Jones family, and he clearly sold the story well enough to earn a little trust.

So it was agreed; while the Blossoms went down to their new town on along the river to oversee their factories being built, Great-Granddad Jones went back to New York City, paid for a smith to teach him the necessary skills, and perhaps most surprisingly of all, found he had a knack for more than just twisting his words.

The first time Jughead heard this story, it was met with healthy skepticism. A man just weasels his way into a business, learns a difficult trade skill just like that, and is never called out on it? He’s always suspected it was more likely his great-grandfather hired someone to do the work instead of him—though, to be fair, it was a known fact that both his father and his grandfather could blow glass, so somewhere down the line, fiction became reality.

Regardless, no matter what JB might say about glass or baseball, in Jughead’s opinion, the only real Jones family legacy was that they were all natural-born liars.

Then again, he’d been told more or less the same tale by both his grandfather and his own father, and it didn’t exactly paint the Joneses in the most reputable light, so perhaps it was the truth. And of course, the end result was the same; the Jones came into the business of glass, partnered with the Blossoms and made their syrup jugs, and Forsythe Pendleton Jones III was bequeathed a related nickname too early in life to protest it.

 _Jug-head;_ or, his father’s idea of humor, he supposes.

The glass factory, as it were, began as a small, speculative operation, supposedly with his great-grandfather solely at the helm for years (Jughead also doubts this), before expanding into it’s second iteration not long before Great-Granddad Jones passed away a very rich and theoretically happy man.

The third and final form of the factory remains his grandfather’s legacy, having grown with the Blossom business to meet supply and demand. Complete with a store front entrance filled with kitchenwares and sculptures, the current factory holds two full floors of stainless kilns and steel-caged fire and employing about two-thirds of the glass blowers in the state—a statistic which is a lot less impressive when one considers there aren’t that many professional glass blowers to begin with, as far as Jughead is concerned.

But there’s a completely paradoxical sense of comfort, somehow, in weaving through the shop entrance to the factory, because this could be his and his sister’s one day; it will be, should nothing stray off the planned path.

Not that he knows much about glass, not anymore than the average layman, but he supposes that’s the point of coming here now for the tour.

He’s nearly at the back of the store, nearly about to pass through the threshold that will take him deeper into the factory, but realizes JB is no longer behind him. He turns around, spotting her dark hair just above a shelf, and follows it. JB lingers in front a figurine display filled with horses, dogs, snakes, and other various creatures, her lips pursed.

Jughead glances between the figurines and his sister; something about them looks familiar to him too, but the tour is supposed to start in a few minutes, and he doesn’t want them to be late, so there’s no time for dallying in front of something he’s sure only stands out because he’s been here too many times to count.

“Come on,” he says, nudging her, and silently, she agrees to follow him.

Ten feet in, they spot their first familiar face.

Nancy lifts the plastic safety goggles off her face, checks something off on her clipboard, and waves them over as soon as she sees them, beaming. “Oh, Jellybean! You’re so tall now, and so pretty,” she coos, and he grins as his sister attempts not to squirm under the praise.

“I go by JB now,” she mutters, cheeks pink, tucking her long hair behind her ears.

“JB, sorry,” Nancy corrects herself, but shares a somewhat knowing smile with Jughead. He’s always liked Nancy, though he doesn’t know her too well; she was a few years ahead of him in school, but worked for the factory one summer and for some reason, just keeps coming back.

“How’s school? How long you been back?” Jughead asks, deciding a bit of small talk can’t hurt them while they wait for their father to arrive and begin the tour.

“Oh, we’ve been out for a month. Best part about college is how early the semesters end,” Nancy says, blowing out a breath of relief. She turns a sharper eye onto Jughead. “You’re going to be a senior this year, right? Have you got your applications planned out yet?”

“Jughead won’t have to apply to college,” JB inserts before he can answer, though he’s not sure he has one. She shoots him a playful sneer. “He’s just going to get scouted and whisked right off his feet.”

“Okay, that’s not how that works,” he mumbles, but truthfully, she has something of a point—if all goes according to plan, his college options will just be decided by who wants him to go where, not where he wants to go.

He clears his throat and turns back to Nancy. “Our dad is giving us a tour today. Have you seen him somewhere around here?”

The smile twitches on Nancy’s face, and she attempts to keep it there. “Not yet,” she says, in a polite voice, perhaps as if just remembering she’s talking to her boss’s children. “I actually haven’t seen him today.”

For a long moment, no one says anything. Then, in a smaller voice, JB asks, “All day?”

“I’m sure he’s just up in his office,” Nancy says sweetly, though her eyes are looking slightly caged, and Jughead doesn’t fault her; it’s definitely not her job to babysit a grown man.

“You guys wait here. I’ll go look for him,” Jughead sighs, because he knows what JB is worried about and if she turns out to be right, he’d rather be the one to find him, likely passed out somewhere stupid. It’ll be a new development, if this is turning into a daytime thing—but he’ll cross that bridge if/when he gets there.

He hears Nancy attempting to lead JB off towards the furnace where Christmas ornaments are made, and he doesn’t look back, crossing the factory floor towards the back, accepting the waves from a few of the older faces who recognize him.

The factory is about as hot as one would expect for a warehouse exclusively full of fire pits, and although attempts at moderating the temperature have been made over the years, sweat pills along Jughead’s brow as he walks briskly across the floor, his heart rate tracing the heat.

He pulls an arm across his forehead, and heads up the metal stairs that lead to his father’s office, which is disappointingly and somehow unsurprisingly empty upon entrance, showing little signs of disturbance whatsoever. Were it not for the jacket strewn over the desk chair signaling his father had been recently here at all, Jughead probably would decide to head downstairs, collect his sister, and go home.

He looks around. The room is completely unchanged since the last time Jughead was here years ago, and still designed for a Don Draper fever dream; dark, mid-century woods, dimly lit, musky, an ancient, yellowed book collection that belonged to his grandfather, a couple of glass sculptures and paper weights strewn across surfaces—like the house he grew up in, he knows his own father had little hand in the decor of the space.

He allows himself a moment longer to linger through the room, as his gaze sweeps across the corners, a spark of something glinting drawing him, magpie-like, towards the bookshelf, where a line of little golden trophies that mark FP Jones’s only influence on the room. They stand out, looking odd amongst all the fine glass.

Jughead stares at them, meeting the empty-socketed eyes of one tiny figurine. Counting them here, he now has more than his father, but trophies look nearly the same as they did thirty years. Gold, luminous, and misleadingly so.

He runs one finger over the coated plastic, and peels off a layer of dust.

.

.

.

Jughead decides to give the factory a full search for his father before calling it a day, and slips down into the basement level where the older furnaces are. The bottom floor isn’t suited to production scale, so as far back as Jughead can remember, it’s just been something of a storage level for the kilns left over from the second factory.

He knows Nancy once had the idea to offer classes and demonstrations down here, but it was a couple years ago that she brought that up, and nothing ever came of it, so he’s not surprised to find the floor empty, and with that, decides he’ll just collect his sister and go.

But then—a spot of movement catches his eye, someone leaning over a pole, and he pivots back into place, quietly shifting closer until he can be sure it’s his father, one of his hands holding the long, glass-blowing shaft in place, the other curling and cutting away at an embroiling piece of fire-red, heated glass.

FP either doesn’t see him moving closer or is too focused on his work, because he doesn’t look up from what appears to be a figurine, as Jughead can now make out an obvious set of four legs being pulled out by hand.

He stands, mesmerized, and watches the birth of a creature of glass being plied out by his father.

And then—he lets out whispered _whoa,_ and the air pops. FP jumps, his head jerking around. Slowly, his eyes unwind upon realizing it was just his own son. “Christ, kid, didn’t I ever teach you not to lurk in the shadows? Nearly gave me a heart attack,” his dad says, after a beat in which they just stare at one another.

“Sorry,” Jughead says, and takes the opportunity to move closer and see what his father made. It’s a tiny horse, one he recognizes as nearly identical to the ones just in a memory and in the shop upstairs alike.

FP follows his son’s line of sight and stares down at his own handiwork, tongue digging into his cheek.

“My kingdom for a horse,” he says pensively, and with a feeble puff of air. He then looks up at his son, eyes glinting as he lifts the protective goggles up off his nose. “Who said that?”

“Shakespeare. It’s from _Richard III,_ ” Jughead explains, after allowing another long moment of taking in the little glass creature.

It might be a grin on his father’s face, but it’s wry, thin. “Yeah, thought you’d know.”

He lets out a noise in the back of his throat, and stands, cutting the horse free from its glass house. Gloved hands hold it up to the light, and then with something almost like a frown, he puts it down on a nearby steel table, which Jughead realizes is lined with more horse figurines, just like the ones they sell in the storefront upstairs.

“I didn’t know you still did any of the glass work,” Jughead says slowly, his eyes trailing up from the little horses to his father, who is pulling his thick gloves off his hands.

“Only sometimes,” FP says, in the gravelly voice that Jughead has always thought held so many secrets. A roving look once-overs him. “What are you doing down here, anyway?”

Jughead pauses, sinking with the realization that his father doesn’t just mean the basement. “We… We have the factory tour today, remember? JB is upstairs waiting with Nancy.”

“Oh,” FP says, but in a tone that proves he barely remembers this plan, despite it being his own idea. Much in the way Jughead does when cornered, he scratches at his neck. “Yeah. Right. To be honest with you, I’ve got a killer headache, kid, and the last thing I feel like doing is hauling the factory floor out. Just have Nancy show you around, she knows what she’s doing.”

 _But—_ Jughead thinks. _But._

JB’s face swirls in front of his thoughts; he wonders if her face will fall, or if she’s used to this now. He wants to grab his father by the collar and march him upstairs, because it’s one thing to pull this shit with himself, and it’s another for him to do it to his sister.

A prick at his side, a rage at the back of his thoughts, Jughead looks into his father’s eyes and knows at once it’s not worth it.

The lines on his face are long like shadows.

“Fine, Dad,” he sighs, and turns on his heel.

.

.

.

He’s been keeping track of the calendar.

He’s been counting down the days as they edge towards the end of June, training ten minutes harder the closer he gets, rising earlier the higher the sun goes—and yet, when it’s finally real, when his bags are finally packed, standing in his house’s foyer, his printed boarding pass is literally within his grasp, he doesn’t know what to feel.

Excitement—that’s what he’d been expecting. Nerves, certainly.

And _those_ are there, he can tell that much. His stomach has been tightly wound all morning, and is definitely not currently helped by listening to JB stomp around the house, her Doc Martens echoing loudly as she barrels up and down the stairs.

“Christ, you’d think she was gearing to raze a castle,” his father mutters beside him, his hands on his hips. He shakes his head, and lifts his voice up the stairs. “Jellybean! Get your ass in gear! We need to hit the road so we don’t miss our damn flight!”

“It’s JB, for the last time!” She screeches, her hands curled over the edge of the staircase railing, her hair draped over her shoulders as she leans across the banister. “And I’m _coming!_ Give me a minute! _God!”_ She storms away, back towards her bedroom, which slams loudly behind her a moment later.

FP shoots Jughead a look that clearly says _can you believe her,_ but Jughead doesn’t return it. Ever since the failed factory tour, JB’s attitude towards their father has gone downhill with all the speed and grace of an avalanche, and as far as Jughead is concerned, she has every right to those feelings, brattily though they might manifest.

Learning she’d have to stay at the Andrews’ for the four days they’d be in North Carolina for national league tryouts hadn’t helped; she’d been suffering the daydream that she might be allowed to stay in the big house by herself for that time, and hadn’t appreciated her illusion being popped.

A minute later, and she trudges down the stairs, shooting them both murderous looks as she hoists her backpack over her shoulder and stomps out the front door.

“What did I do?” Jughead mutters, picking up his own duffle bag from the floor. His father sighs wearily behind him, and Jughead wonders if FP doesn’t find JB’s petulance as amusing as he lets on.

But it’s time to go, not dwell. They all throw their bags into the back of his father’s SUV, buckle in, and then with one last time checking that the front door is locked and the gate is secured after them, FP steers the car down the drive and turns onto the road that will take them to the Andrews’ house.

Fred is sitting on his porch swing with a steaming cup of coffee in a red flannel shirt, Vegas at his feet, both of them looking every bit part of the L.L. Bean catalogue Jughead thinks Fred must aspire to be. It’s nearly noon, but Archie is likely still asleep.

He lifts up a stiff hand in greeting, sets down his mug on the porch, and trots down the front steps as the Joneses pour out of the car, greeting them all one by one.

JB, her face still sour, crosses her arms as she stands on the sidewalk, but even the fresh scent of teen spirit can’t resist Fred’s paternal smile, because she softens after a moment and returns his hello before dropping into a squat to pet Vegas.

“You guys wanna come in for coffee for a bit?” Fred asks, his thumb hitched over his shoulder, facing the house.

“Can’t, sorry, we got a flight to catch,” FP says, though he doesn’t sound apologetic at all. He pulls in a long gulp of air, his mouth tipped upwards in a smile.

Under the gleam of the sun, Jughead now realizes his father looks much brighter than he’s seen him in ages, his eyes clear and attentive. There’s another word for how he looks, and Jughead’s not sure he can even think it.

FP catches Jughead watching him, and reaches over and ruffles his hair before disappearing to the trunk to retrieve his daughter’s weekend bag. As soon as he’s out of sight, JB rises up on her toes and dramatically mimics the action, rubbing her hands over Jughead’s hair until it’s so mussed it must be standing upright.

As if he can’t help it, Jughead hopes that if Betty is somehow lingering in her window, watching any of this, she didn’t see _that._

He pushes his hair back down into place.

“Bring home gold or else,” she teases, her nose wrinkled.

“Okay, you literally have no idea how any of this works. They’re tryouts, not championships. There’s no gold,” he sighs, and for the first time in days, she smiles.

And then, as if deciding now is the right time for her goodbyes, JB hugs Jughead and then practically sprints inside, deliberately avoiding their father, whose warm grin falters, watching her disappear through the doorway.

Fred, the oracle that he is, offers FP an understanding smile. “Thirteen is a rough age,” he says, in a way that carries both nostalgia and commiseration.

Jughead looks over in time to see his father’s lips pressing together firmly, and then waves his hand, as if to dismiss the thought. “Actually, I should use the bathroom before we hit the road, it’s a long way to the airport. You mind, Fred?”

“’Course not,” Fred says, and moves for JB’s bag, left on the curb, but FP is faster. His lips are still thin as he lifts it over his shoulder, and then his back is to Jughead, as both men head inside.

Jughead debates following in after them or perhaps heeding his own father’s words as advice, but then he hears his name coming from the direction of next door, and turns to see Betty leaning against the white fence that divides the block of lawn, her already tanned arms folded underneath her chin.

“Is that your sister?” She asks, grinning at him, and he realizes at that moment that she did indeed see all the hair teasing. “No black turtleneck.”

He shakes his head, trying hard not to return her smile. “It’s June; she’s not _that_ dedicated to the aesthetic. She still likes the book, though.”

“Good,” she says in a breath. Her eyes sweep curiously across the sidewalk, over his father’s car, giving him a moment to take in her appearance—dirty, but feminine overalls, which seem to be a surprising choice based on her previous outfits of tough denim, black leather, and white cotton. He doesn’t get a chance to ask, however, because she’s looking at him again. “Looked like you were dropping her off. Are you going somewhere?”

“I have tryouts for the national youth league,” he says, with a bit of a sigh. “In North Carolina. We’re flying out today.”

Betty tilts her head at him, and he feels compelled to add, “Only for four days. Nice to know you were spying on me, though.”

Her lips twitch as he watches her resist the urge to roll her eyes. “Relax. I was in the garage, voices float.”

His own jaw muscles are starting to protest the prolonged smile on his face, but then his father is trotting down the steps of the Andrews’ house, and Jughead knows his father won’t want to dally any further. “I should go,” he says, glancing over at his father, who passes them one fleeting look before rounding the car for the driver’s seat.

Betty nods, and he just turns when she calls, “Hey, Jughead.”

He spins back around, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

“Good luck,” she says, and then she herself pushes off from the fence. He catches her throwing him one last look before she disappears into the Cooper’s open garage, shrouded in shadow, just as mysterious as she herself seems to enjoy being.

The SUV honks its horn at him, breaking the moment, and he jogs back to it, sliding into his seat and barely buckling in before his father is pulling off the block. As they peel through the edge of town, he feels hyper-aware of the fact that it’s just them, alone in the car, because he can’t think of a single thing to say.

His stomach churns again, no longer distracted by the surliness of his little sister or the whims of Betty Cooper.

If he gets sick, maybe he can blame it on the airplane.

At a red light, FP nudges Jughead with his elbow, grinning widely. “Excited, kid?”

Jughead looks back at his father, and despite the nerves raging away in his abdomen, realizes that’s exactly what he is. FP Jones is the one excited, but beyond that—there’s another emotion mixing in the paint, and the color beams across his whole face.

“Yeah, Dad. I am,” Jughead says, wondering if it’s a lie and finding the grin infectious in spite of that. His own lips curl upwards.

Proud, that’s what his dad is.

The light turns green.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: [baba o'riley](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x2KRpRMSu4g) by the who,[ the real world](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PYJ0fbF6XwY) by drugdealer, and [still the same ](https://vimeo.com/61207741)by bob seger.
> 
> i'll preface with: i know it was minimal bughead interaction, but like the last chapter for betty, it's important to me that i spend some time with these characters backstories and their family/friend relationships.
> 
> but i promise that chapter 7 is full of lots of bughead, so...hopefully that'll make up for the light content in this and the last chapter. :)
> 
> anyway, this was a chapter in which i got really caught up in my headcanon for the jones family and honestly i'm too exhausted to really delve into it, but i've got about a million fp and jughead thoughts left over from that last episode of riverdale and needed to put them somewhere. the jones are nothing if not cyclical, and that doesn't really change in my role reversal. 
> 
> and as always, i get utterly lost in JB as a character. even though there's only about 3-5 lines about her in canon, there's so much character built in just there, and i always have fun exploring that. so please excuse my JB love of her as a bratty, nylon-magazine-reading, patti-smith-loving, can-i-get-my-nose-pierced little sister. 
> 
> also, i'm sorry to be behind on review replies again---i had some requests to just update the chapter first, since i was originally going to wait till morning to post this, after i'd finished them all. but it's been a long day lads, so i just went ahead. will be getting to replies tomorrow though!
> 
> please, please, please drop me a review and let me know what you thought. comments are what i fall back on when i'm feeling tired or drained, and were especially useful this past week, as we've all been reeling from the utter anguish and drama of the canon show. so reviews are more important than ever! thank you!!
> 
>  
> 
> [p.s. ever seen a glass horse being made? it's crazy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6FoWvLxrxM8)


	7. Chapter 7

 

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July rolls in without much fanfare; maybe it’s just this time of year, but Betty always feels like there’s some kind of foxtrot about the summer—whispered instructions of slow, slow, quick-quick-slow, over and over—in which everything seems to sneak up on her.

Toni literally sneaks up on her early that week, when she’s alone at the roller rink, changing light bulbs. Inexplicably, the pink bulb by the disco ball keeps dying out every other month, almost like clockwork, and she’s just finished putting in the new one when she hears a crackly voice over the loudspeaker, so sudden she nearly falls off the ladder.

“Betty Cooper to the front desk,” comes a sly voice she recognizes belatedly as belonging to her best friend. “There are some little birds and mice here to speak with you about the dress they’ve made for you.”

She looks over from the top of the ladder to see Toni perched on the front counter, her legs crossed, her fingers wrapped around the little microphone.

“Very funny. You could get me fired for that, you know,” Betty calls as she climbs down, old bulb in a box tucked under her arm.

“By who?” Toni drawls dubiously, throwing a hand around the empty space. “When was the last time your manager actually came to work? Besides, if he fired you, he knows he’d actually have to do his job, and last I checked hell hasn’t frozen over.”

Betty puts the bulb box down on the counter a little more loudly than necessary, fixing Toni with a flat look.

 _“Anyway,”_ Toni says pointedly, tilting her head at Betty. “Relax, I’m not here to try to get you to leave early again. I just wanted to know what you wanted to do for the fourth tomorrow.”

“Oh,” she says, honestly having forgotten that it’s so soon. “Well, we could go to the fair. I haven’t been yet this year.”

Toni pulls a face, almost instinctually, but then seems to think about it. “It’s just been so expensive the past few years. But I guess if we’re gonna go, we should do it on the big day. Sweet Pea suggested some dumb kegger in the woods, but I think I’d rather suffer the nostalgia, and he’ll go along with it.”

“He really wants to come?”

“Fogarty too. He said he’d be down with whatever majority wants. It’s been a while since the four of us hung out,” Toni says, shrugging, but something quite nearly sad in the tinge of her words.

“Yeah,” Betty says, hearing her own voice come out in the same strange tone. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

“Cool,” Toni replies, pushing a lock of her hair back from her forehead and then hopping down from the counter. “Want to caravan? I keep forgetting which house you’re at each week.”

“It’s already a blur,” Betty agrees, sighing. Just last week, she’d spent nearly half an hour tearing apart her bedroom in search of the book she was reading—only to remember she’d left it at the other house. It’d been a strangely jarring feeling. “But I’m at my dad’s. I’ll just meet you there.”

“Okay,” Toni chirps, waving her off and crossing the rink towards the exit. She pushes on the double doors, white light from outside flooding into the otherwise dimly lit room. “I’ll text you the time to meet tomorrow later tonight. See you then!” She calls, and then she’s gone.

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The next morning, Betty dresses in only her blue cutoffs and a plain white t-shirt that she knots at the back, knowing by both her weather app and experience that it’s likely to be unbearably hot much of the day. After lacing up her black hightops, she lathers herself with sunscreen and puts the bottle into her purse, and is just nearly out the door when she hears her father’s voice from the living room.

“What do you have planned for the fourth, kiddo?” He asks, taking off his reading glasses as she doubles back into the room. He puts his book down in his lap, a biography on Robert Moses she does her best not to scowl at.

She’s still not entirely sure how she feels about the word _kiddo,_ but she’s at least reached the conclusion it’s not quite deliberately meant to patronize her. Or if it is, she’s given him the benefit of the doubt that he’s not aware of what he’s doing.

“Going to the town fair with some friends,” she says, putting her sunglasses onto the top of her head.

“Sounds like that’ll be fun,” Hal says genially, and then gets up, digging his hand into his pocket and retrieving his wallet. “Here, this should cover tickets and food,” he says, holding out a wad of bills.

Betty blinks, surprised, although she’s not sure why. While her mother has been tight with petty cash since as long as she can remember, her father has also always been exceedingly generous with it. But before, it seemed like a power play between her parents. Now, it just seems like a gesture. Or—something even more innocent than that.

“Thanks,” she says slowly, taking the money and putting it into her purse. It feels thicker and heavier than the money she has with her from work, but thinks she’d feel strange counting it in front of him.

“Have a blast,” he says, sitting back down on the couch and picking his book back up.

Smiling at the pun, Betty almost asks him what his plans are for the holiday, but he honestly seems satisfied with his reading. He must have _some_ friends, she thinks, as she heads for the door. Archie’s dad will probably invite him over. She vaguely remembers this block usually throws a little party, mostly for the kids, but then she wonders if there even still are young kids living in this neighborhood.

But the thought is gone by the time she reaches the fairgrounds, which is only a decent walk from her father’s house. Sweet Pea, Fangs, and Toni are already waiting for her by the time she arrives, all of them leaning up against their motorcycles in the parking lot, looking quite out of place and without a care for it.

It’s still early, so they get pass through the turnstiles without having to wait in line, and head straight for one of the ticket booths, which is also sparse with people. As they get close enough to read the sign, Betty understands why; there’s no one behind the glass, just a sign promising a swift return.

“I forgot you have to pay for literally everything here,” Betty says, frowning at the overhead board, which translates the ticket exchange rate. No one takes cash on the fairgrounds; every transaction is in pre-paid tickets. Below the big sign is a much smaller one in the window that reads _back in five minutes._ She pulls her purse around her shoulder and sifts through the money her father gave her, but feels weird admitting out loud how much he actually handed over, especially so easily. “I’ve about got forty bucks,” she lies. “You guys?”

“Who said anything about paying?” Sweet Pea laughs, as if he’s surprised Betty would even ask. He throws her a smirk. “Sit tight, Cooper. Fogarty and I got this.”

Betty looks at Toni for answers, but she just grins wryly. “Come on,” she says, taking Betty’s hand and leading her away from the ticket booth. “Plausible deniability.”

She glances over her shoulder just in time to see Fangs vigilantly crossing his arms by the back of the ticket shed as Sweet Pea disappears behind it. A few minutes later, the boys approach them by the cotton candy stall, arms swinging and looking incredibly pleased with themselves, something bulky obviously stuffed under Sweet Pea’s leather vest.

“Relax, Betty,” Toni says, her lips curved fondly. She crosses her arms. “This place is total a rip off anyway, and it’s not like we’re taking money from anyone except a mayor who doesn’t care about us. And what, don’t you think that fun and games should be made available to everyone, regardless of wealth or status? Isn’t this whole thing a testament to bloated, institutional accessibility?”

“What she said,” Sweet Pea echoes, throwing his arm around Fangs’s shoulders in order to discreetly flash Betty the sizable roll of red tickets shoved under his armpit, which he then promptly passes off to Toni to stash in her backpack.

“Of course I do,” Betty agrees, shaking her head to clear the thought. They’re right. It’s a national holiday, and everyone should have the right to experience it by way of fun when half of their education is centered around lauding it in the first place.

The more she thinks on it, in fact, the more she doesn’t know why she even hesitated on the worry—it’s wrong, that not everyone gets to enjoy this. Maybe she’s been spending too much time on the Northside, maybe it’s making her soft.

“Oh, I know that look,” Toni says, snorting. “Picking a new crusade, Betty?”

“Not today she isn’t,” Sweet Pea says, hustling Betty under his other arm and interrupting the blooming thought. “No, today, we’re gonna have some all-American fun.”

Toni settles the three of them with a half-lidded roll of her eyes and then turns on her heels. “Keep up kids, I’ve got the goods,” she drawls, and Sweet Pea releases both her and Fangs from under his arms to rush after Toni, so quickly she doesn’t have time to anticipate him hoisting her up like a sack of potatoes and throwing her over his shoulder. Her backpack slips off, and Betty reaches down to scoop it back up, putting it on.

As Toni squeals with laughter, Fangs appears at Betty’s side and squats down, clearly gesturing that he’ll give Betty a ride on his back. “Like old times,” he offers dryly, and after a moment’s consideration, she climbs on, feeling twelve again, Fangs carrying her to the corner store to get twizzlers and oreos. He’s always been the closest thing she’s had to a neighbor.

“Can’t you be nice and cute like Fangs and Betty?” Toni calls to Sweet Pea, banging her fists on his back. “Put me down, you giant snake for brains.” When that doesn’t work, she cries, “My camera is around my neck, asshole! You wanna buy me a new Leica?”

“Does anyone else hear something squeaking like a mouse?” Sweet Pea says innocently, twisting around so quickly that Toni’s pink hair flies up, but after another loud harrumph from her, he does indeed return her to the ground. She punches him on the arm at once, but she’s still grinning.

“I’m making you go on the tilt-o-whirl for that, dick,” Toni says, snickering when the smile instantly drops from Sweet Pea’s face. Fang’s laughter vibrates through to Betty, and she giggles too, as she’s sure they’re all remembering the quite memorable last time he went on said ride.

They cut from the entrance area towards the rest of the fair. The whole world seems blue and yellow; a cloudless sky beams down at her, the sun as golden as the straw lining the carnival’s gates, and the air smells thickly of hay, dust, and some faraway sweetness of a food cart, everything musky with summer heat and the bodies filling it.

Pinstriped tents, dimmed down neon, and a melody of distant laugher and buzzing bells dance all around her senses.

It’s a feeling that is already like a memory.

Betty scans the crowd, feeling like she recognizes everyone and no one, and gives up trying to figure out whom she wants to see there. She rests her head against the back of Fangs’s black denim vest. The fabric is warm against her cheek.

Toni grins over at Betty and Fangs, her expression tender, and she falls back a step. “Turn around, guys,” she calls, raising her camera to her eye.

Fangs does as he’s told. Betty smiles easily, automatically, softly, feeling for the first time in weeks, actually relaxed.

The world in a _click._

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After a turn on both the tilt-o-whirl and something more ominously labeled “The Big Drop”—both of which manage to turn Sweet Pea roughly the color of his namesake and which Toni attempts to document with further photography—they decide their bodies could use a break from the turbulence.

They exchange a couple more tickets for some sodas and funnel cake, which they all share atop a hay bale near the petting zoo. “I still kinda love this place,” Toni says softly, her lips tucked around a plastic fork filled with powdered sugar and cake. The little Leica camera lies on the hay between them. “Remember the year Polly took us, and you and I thought it would be fun to play hide-and-seek in the corn maze?”

“Oh my god, yeah, she was so mad,” Betty giggles, reaching forward with her own fork and scooping up some of the cake for herself.

Toni’s lips press together against a smile. “Mad is not the word I’d use. I think we nearly sent her to an early grave.”

“Well, she definitely didn’t want to take us the year after that,” Betty agrees after a moment, shrugging. “She’s never really liked the fair, anyway.”

Something works across Toni’s face, but before Betty can linger on it, Sweet Pea’s phone rings. He groans loudly when he looks at the caller ID, exchanging a look with Fangs. He exhales before answering, and when he does, his expression definitely doesn’t grow any less annoyed.

“Yeah, _fine,_ I know the rules, Tall Boy,” he says into his phone, lip curled. “But—today? It’s the fourth of—yeah. Alright, fine, shut up. We’re coming.” By the time he hangs up, it seems like everyone but Betty has figured out the nature of the phone call. Fangs stands up, stretching, and even Toni gets to her feet.

“He’s such an ass,” she mutters under her breath, putting her camera away in her backpack and pulling it on over her shoulders.

“What’s going on?” Betty asks, the only one still sitting.

“We gotta go, babe,” Toni says, her voice forlorn. She shakes her head again. “He’s the worst, but I honestly didn’t think he’d call us in _today_. I don’t know why I’m surprised. He’s such a spiteful old creep.”

“What? But it’s the fourth of July,” Betty says, looking around at the three of them, but Fangs just shakes his head. _Don’t even Serpents get the holidays off?_ “You can’t even stay for the fireworks?”

“Those are hours away, Cooper. We kinda got into some deep shit a couple weeks ago, and Tall Boy put us on…let’s call it patrol,” Sweet Pea explains, crossing his arms. At Betty’s look, he shrugs and adds, “We may have thrown some things into the quarry that we weren’t supposed to.”

Betty releases a half-scoff, unsure where her imagination is capable of going. “Like what?”

“Turns out top-shelf liquor isn’t just an expression,” Fangs mutters. “How the fuck should we know that?”

She turns to look at Toni, who offers her a thin, apologetic smile as she jumps down off the hay bale. “And I didn’t stop them, so I’m being punished too. Sorry, Betty. Really. But, here,” she says, reaching around into her backpack and pulling out the roll of tickets. “Take them. Ride some rides, or pawn them off onto some unsuspecting rich kid.”

She sighs, but takes the tickets. Toni does truly look sorry, but resignation is another expression Betty recognizes well, especially lately. “I’ll call you tomorrow?” Toni asks, hope tinged on the end of it, the question more about forgiveness than anything else.

“Yeah, of course,” Betty says after a moment, waving the three of them off, leaving her there on the hay bales.

She knows she shouldn’t be annoyed with them—from recounted stories, Betty knows that Tall Boy has never liked any of the kids much and was probably being harsher than any other Serpent would’ve been—but at the same time, why _can’t_ she be upset with them?

They did something stupid, and now she’s on her own. It’s like her parents all over again—a decision made that Betty had no control over, but one that seemed to effect her most of all. Dimly, and before she can stop it, she wonders when her life will stop feeling navigated solely by the choices others make around her.

And then, of course, she immediately feels guilty, because it’s not like she’s the one who has to go do _patrol,_ the real definition of which she knows she doesn’t want to hear, and there’s a big difference between feeling angry at her parents for splitting her down the middle and annoyed with her friends for having to ditch her for some undefined Serpent duty.

It suddenly seems silly—and selfish—to compare her parents’ whole separation to something as simple as her friends having to leave her alone on the fourth of July, and so she smothers the thought, feeling annoyed with herself for thinking it in the first place.

Betty gets up. The backs of her thighs are prickled red from the scratchy hay, but she hadn’t realized how much it’d been irritating her skin until she’s moved off of it. She throws away the remains of the funnel cake and stands by the trash a moment longer, sipping down on her soda until it’s nothing but ice at the bottom of her straw, buying time against making a decision about the rest of her plans.

She could probably re-sell the tickets easily, but something about that feels wrong. It’s one thing to justify not having to give money to a corrupt town just to enjoy herself, and it’s another to turn a profit. Sliding the roll into her bag, she decides to just call it a day, as the last thing she feels like doing is wandering around this place of nostalgia by her lonesome.

The turnstiles leading out of the fairgrounds are just in sight when she hears her name being called through the crowd, and she turns to see Veronica waving and jogging up to her. Well—as much as Veronica Lodge can or would ever jog, especially on something like soft, well-trodden grass. Wearing some kind of navy blue romper, cat-eye sunglasses, and strappy sandals, it’s quite remarkably the most dressed down Betty’s ever seen her, but wholly appropriate for such a muggy summer’s day.

“I was wondering if our paths might cross!” Veronica reaches her and gives her a hug, hands on her shoulders as they separate, a skeptical kind of look underneath her lowered glasses as she realizes what direction Betty was facing. “But—wait, you aren’t _leaving,_ were you?”

Betty glances back at the exit, still fifty feet off, thinking that nothing seems to get past Veronica Lodge.

“Oh,” she mumbles, watching a mother struggle to drag her crying child through a turnstile. “Well, my friends had something come up and had to go, so…”

“Well, their loss is obviously my gain,” Veronica says, in a decidedly airy kind of voice, looping her arm through Betty’s. “If you don’t _have_ to go, _please_  come join us. I mean, you can’t go already! It’s the fourth, and you deserve to see some fireworks.”

“I don’t know…” Betty mumbles, thinking of the last conversation she had with Veronica. “Didn’t you say the other day this was supposed to be your first date with Archie?”

Veronica’s expression changes at once. “Yes, it was _supposed_ to be. But then he went and invited his friend at the last second, so now I’m rethinking signals and wondering if they were crossed. Beyond enjoying your company of course, I wouldn’t mind a second set of eyes on the situation.”

“I bet he just got nervous about being alone with you,” Betty replies, grinning and allowing Veronica to steer her away from the turnstiles. If she’d had any idea how much of his drunken stupor had been dedicated to thoughts of Veronica, Betty knows she wouldn’t be so unsure. “Trust me, he definitely likes you.”

Veronica passes her a small smile, obviously pleased with this information. “Regardless,” she says, drawing her close in a conspiratorial kind of way, “if he gets to bring a friend, so do I.”

They round a cotton candy stand to see Archie leaning up against the backside of a large hot food cart, scanning the crowd, and seemingly for Veronica, as he lights up in a grin when he spots her. This is the first time Betty has seen him without the letterman jacket, and he almost looks strange without it, but she supposes it’d be stranger to wear in weather pushing ninety.

“Archie, you remember Betty, I’m sure. I found her about to leave, which, of course, was completely unacceptable, so she’ll be joining us,” Veronica says, one hand on Betty’s shoulder and the other on her arm, as if presenting her. Her tone is slightly coy, and Betty realizes this is partially Archie’s test; does he pout and frown, annoyed to have another wheel brought in? Does he accept her suddenly bringing along a friend?

“Hey Betty,” he says, face falling at once into a friendly, easy smile, and Betty remembers that, despite it all, she doesn’t quite hate him either. In fact, there’s something to appreciate about a guy who might be exactly as he appears. “Of course I remember. You live next door.”

“My _dad_ lives next door,” Betty corrects, stifling a sigh, certain they’ve had this exact conversation before.

Archie shoots her a funny kind of grin. “What’s the difference?”

She rolls her lips in a _pfft_ sound and pushes her sunglasses up on her forehead. “How much time do you have?”

A head pokes around the food cart, and a moment later, Jughead’s body emerges out from behind it, a hotdog in hand, and his eyes on Betty.

“Thought I heard voices,” he says, and Betty can’t help but notice the once-over he seems to openly give her, eyes lingering on her bare legs. He himself is wearing dark jeans and a plain t-shirt, as seems to be his standard non-practice fare, and Betty can’t help but think— _he looks good._ A bit more tanned, too, like maybe he’s not just stealing practices at midnight anymore. She remembers he was going down south for something, and thinks the Carolina sun might’ve done some good.

“Oh my god. You’re eating _again?”_ Veronica asks, her lip curled distastefully as she too takes him in.

He turns back to Veronica, biting into his hotdog quite pointedly, his tone bland, “You were gone a while. Had to occupy myself in your extremely palpable absence.”

Betty tries to hide a smile, but if anything, Veronica appears even less impressed with him. “Yes, well, I had to nearly walk across this entire venue to find an acceptable bathroom—I had to practically beg one of the ticket sellers to let me use the employee’s, but—” She glances at Betty and gestures vaguely at her romper, which she knows would not be fun to use in a port-a-potty. The boys look confused.

“ _Anyway_. Jughead, you probably remember my friend Betty,” Veronica says brightly, in an obvious attempt at changing the subject, a hand on Betty’s arm once more.

“I do,” he replies, giving her another sidelong look, this one tinged with a speckling of amusement. She’s not exactly sure what’s weighted on his words, but it’s certainly there. “Hey,” he adds in a low voice, clearly just to her.

Involuntarily, her lips lift up. “Hey,” she returns, feeling a light tingle at the back of her neck.

“Well,” Veronica says, clapping her hands together, her attention flicking between the two of them with mach speed and a growing expression Betty is instinctually wary of; it’s the look her mom tends to get when she’s caught one of her daughters in a lie. “Betty, before I left, we were just weighing the dilemma of games or rides first. Personally, I’m not in favor of boarding anything that can be disassembled in less than 24 hours, and I think the least we can do today is take full advantage of the athletic prowesses at hand. What do you say to winning us some bears, boys?”

Archie and Jughead exchange long glances, and with it, the kind of fully telepathic conversation that exclusively speaks of a decades-long friendship. Archie’s eyes bulge, and Jughead rolls his own, shrugging and taking another bite of his hotdog.

“I guess that’s exactly what we should do,” Jughead says drolly, throwing Betty another look as he chews. She can’t quite read it.

“But, V,” Betty inserts, smiling despite herself, “if they _do_ win us bears, we’ll have to lug them around all day. I think we should do that last.”

Jughead throws his hands in the air. “She gets it. _That’s_ what I was saying before.”

“Oh, alright,” Veronica sighs sacrificially, like she’s just agreed to sign over some kind of land deed. “But I am not riding anything that puts me upside down, no matter how temporarily. Nor am I sitting anywhere near Jughead on anything motion-heavy, not after he’s eaten his weight in hotdogs already. Clear?”

At once, Archie and Jughead exchange twin shit-eating grins. “We won’t go on the pirate ship ride,” Archie assures her quickly, his face wide with excitement, and this is definitely what he wanted in spite of earlier acquiescences.

“I brought you along to be my ally,” she says to Betty as they begin to walk towards the main rides area, dropping her pose only to loop their arms, as it seems to be her favorite mark of friendship. But right now, Betty thinks it has more to do with being annoyed at not getting her immediate way and presenting that to Archie.

“I’m just being practical,” Betty says, raising her eyebrows at her. The boys walk a few feet ahead, just out of earshot, but when Jughead jogs off to a trashcan to dispose of his hotdog wrappings, Betty could swear he looks back at her once more.

Veronica lets out a short huff, and then grins, any trace of petulance gone. “I know. Everyone was right. I just hate that it wasn’t me,” she says, a self-deprecating smirk on her face. And then it softens. “Thanks for sticking around. First date or not, I’m really glad you’re here.”

Betty smiles back, her eyes scanning Veronica’s pleased face, and then she looks forward, finding her eyes on the back of Jughead, almost of their own volition.

And then she looks back at Veronica, unsure what she’s feeling, especially compared to not only ten minutes ago, when she was stewing over her friends’ departure. And then, Betty smiles. “Well, thanks for inviting me.”

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.

“Alright, boys and girls, what do you want to do first?” Jughead asks, pulling to a stop in front of the Ferris wheel and comically clapping his hands together.

“I don’t know, how many tickets do we have?” Archie asks, pulling a small pile of loose red tickets out of his jean’s pocket. Jughead does the same, and Archie collects them into one palm. “That’s like, enough for maybe six rides for all of us, at least until we go get more? _If_ we don’t buy more food,” he adds, throwing Jughead a look.

“It’s okay, I’ve got plenty,” Betty says, pulling the roll Toni had bequeathed her with out of her purse, looking even more sizable in comparison to Archie’s handful.

“Oh my god, talk about my modern heroine,” Veronica says, throwing her an impressed look. “Where did you get all those?”

Betty has a feeling she wouldn’t favor the look she’d get if she admitted Fangs and Sweet Pea stole them, so she settles on a half-truth. “My friends had to go, so they just gave me everything they had. Didn’t want them to go to waste.”

“Nice,” Archie says, though his voice is a bit vague, nearly suspicious enough to make Betty feel somewhat uncomfortable as she puts them back in her purse. _Don’t forget who you’re with,_ a voice that sounds suspiciously like Toni’s reminds her.

Jughead clears his throat, throwing a loose arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Well, let’s reap those rewards,” he says, smiling at Betty in his unreadable way.

“Bumper cars?” Archie suggests.

“I can’t drive,” Veronica says on a sigh.

“This isn’t actual driving,” Jughead says. “It’s just…a wheel, which directs you towards things to hit at full speed. Force versus object. No skill required.”

“But we’ll buddy up. They let you put two people in. I can drive our car,” Archie quickly assures her, and Veronica looks so pleased that Betty only realizes belatedly that means she and Jughead will probably be awkwardly paired together—something she suspects will happen quite a few times today.

“It’s okay, we can get our own,” Jughead says to her, as they step into line. And then, he pauses, the tips of his ears red. “I mean—you can have your own bumper car. And I’ll get my own.”

Betty nods, scanning his face, curious if it’s possible that she makes him nervous—one minute, he seems completely at ease, to the point of borderline apathy, and then sometimes—sometimes she knows he’s blushing, and wonders what that means.

They all settle in to their cars, but the ride is busy and full, and Betty immediately loses track of the rest of them, only catching a glimpse of Archie’s red hair for about a half second. She zooms around the track, trying to find Archie and Veronica as a target, when suddenly, from behind, her car is pummeled into, sending it forward a few inches.

She whips her neck around, mouth agape, and Jughead grins toothily at her. She scoffs loudly, and turning the wheel as quickly as she can, she attempts to hit him back, but the cars are clunky to maneuver and he dodges the first attempt. Until— _thunk!_

Finally, she bumps him back, and his car goes careening into another. At that moment, the bell signaling the end of the ride tolls, and the cars all power down, automatically. Jughead is out of his car first, and looks like he’s about to offer his hand to help her out of her own, but she’s already standing and climbing out by the time he reaches her.

“That wasn’t bad,” he says to her, his hand dropping against his side. “You got me good on the last one.”

“All’s fair,” she says in singsong response, spotting Archie and Veronica near the ride’s exit. She and Jughead fall into step. “Though I was really aiming for Archie. You’d think his red hair would’ve made a better target.”

“Your ponytail worked for me,” he replies, half a lip lifted in a smirk.

She throws him a look of forced annoyance, but then returns his smile all the same.

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They spend the next couple of hours wandering around the fairgrounds and riding rides—she and Veronica sit out on the tilt-o-whirl, as Betty has no interest in doing it again and Veronica looks relieved at an opportunity to bow out—but eventually even the boys tire of their stomachs getting jolted around and agree it’s time to play a few games and win Veronica her promised prize.

The sun is much lower in the sky now as they make their way across the fairgrounds once more, towards the tents and stalls, evening coloring the world with cotton candy and the early stirrings of cicadas and fireflies beyond the crowds, but Betty can still feel the earlier sunshine sitting flatly on her skin, now a comfortable glow.

Summer days may be sluggish with heat, but a setting sun brings a wind that kisses the sweat away, and she feels quite suddenly hazy with peacefulness. It’s relaxation again, she realizes a moment later. It’s still unfamiliar, and still taking her by surprise.

After a bit of debate, Archie and Veronica decide to try for the ring toss, leaving Betty and Jughead to some game where the object is to throw a ball into a moving target’s hole, one where everyone agrees his talents are probably best utilized. Betty hands off the ticket taker a couple pieces of the red paper, and Jughead is given four balls.

She watches as he spends a fair amount of time just observing the target—an appropriately ugly clown with a wide mouth to throw the balls into—eyes flicking as it moves back and forth, as if calculating speed in his head. And then he mounts himself into some kind of half-a-pitcher’s pose, hurls the ball down—and it bangs off the side of the clown’s mouth, just barely missing the mark.

“Here I thought you were nationally ranked,” Betty says, leaning up against the wooden posting of the booth. She throws him the same kind of toothy grin he’d given her in the bumper cars. “Unless you’re hustling me.”

“I am not,” he mutters, picking up the next ball and testing the weight in his hand. “I mean, not technically ranked. But—I could be hustling you for all you know,” he adds, grinning.

She crosses her arms, but can’t fight the smile off her face. “If you were hustling me, why would you just have given it away?”

“Or, that’s just what I want you to think,” he says, throwing up one of the balls and catching it with the same hand.

“Sure it is. Anyway, isn’t that what you were doing last month? Getting nationally ranked, or something?”

He shoots her a sidelong look, one that seems to be confused if it’s more surprised she remembered, or more amused that she’s obviously wrong.

“I was trying out for the national youth league. Not the same thing,” he says, setting up his pitch more carefully this time before throwing the ball, but it just barely misses again, and Jughead lets out a half-annoyed huff and turns to the kid behind the booth, his voice slightly louder, “And this game is obviously rigged.”

The incredibly pimply preteen looks up from his phone and winks at Betty. “No, your boyfriend just sucks at this,” he says to her, and before Betty can even begin to refute that, Jughead rolls his eyes and immediately tries it once more, throwing the ball much harder now. This time, it makes it through the clown’s mouth, and a feeble crescendo of bells ring out.

Betty snorts, and selects a little stuffed giraffe toy as her bounty. They walk off in search of Archie and Veronica, Jughead’s hands shoved in his pockets. “Hope that display of righteous and toxic masculinity put you at ease,” he mutters sarcastically. He throws her a look. “Sorry to get briefly caveman on you.”

“I’ve seen worse, trust me,” Betty sighs, looking into the glassy eyes of her new prize. “And thank you for winning me the giraffe, anyway.” She holds it up to Jughead’s face. “What should we call him?”

“Clearasil,” he suggests dryly, rubbing one of its little ears. “Cleary for short.”

Betty laughs loudly. “That’s awful. And mean.”

His smirk grows. “Name him Jughead the Fourth then. Carry on my family legacy.”

“You’re the _third_ Jughead?” She asks, sounding slightly incredulous even to her own ears.

“No, but I am the third…something. Trust me, Jughead is the best iteration we’ve been able to come up with in retaliation of tradition,” he says evasively, his lips still tipped up.

Betty makes a noise in the back of her throat, surveying him curiously, suddenly realizing she really doesn’t know much about him at all.

Vaguely, she knows his family are one of the old ones who started up the town, who run the glass factory by the old mill—even more vaguely, she remembers a school field trip there, many years ago, filled with hot steel and kilns and people in big plastic goggles, pulling objects out of thin air.

She knows he’s very good at baseball, and hasn’t got the vocabulary she’d expect granted that. She knows he has a little sister, one with good taste. She also knows he’s got eyes that crease at the corners only when he smiles, something she can admit she likes. And now she knows he’s the third—something.

He’s looking at her funnily now, and Betty realizes she’s been staring while lost in thought. “Um,” she says, quickly glancing away under the pretense of trying to scan for Archie and Ronnie in the crowd. “So, how did it go, anyway? Your tryout…thing?”

“My tryout thing,” he repeats, more to himself, and she can’t help but think it sounds slightly odd to her ears. Not exactly bitter, but—strange. “It went well. Made the team.”

“Congrats,” Betty says slowly, increasingly more sure she’s not misplacing his enthusiasm. “So…what does that mean?”

Jughead scratches behind his ear. “Means I’ll be traveling a bit for the rest of the summer, mostly. And it looks really good to scouts, which is mostly why I’m doing it. But it’s not like—it’s basically just another club league.”

Betty throws him a slightly skeptical look. “Why do I get the feeling you’re underselling that?”

He blows out a breath and meets her eye. “Like I said, it’s really not a big deal. I’m not even sure I—” But he cuts himself off, and shakes his head. “Anyway. Again, it just looks good to scouts.”

He might be about to change the subject or ask her something else, but at that moment, Archie and Veronica appear out of a parting red sea of a crowd, a very large toy bear hoisted onto Archie’s back as Veronica waves them over.

“Jesus Christ,” Jughead laughs, giving Archie a pitiful look. “Is this the new weight training system Clayton wants you to try out?”

“Shut up,” Archie mumbles, adjusting the bear on his back.

“Isn’t it adorable?” Veronica beams, her hand on his arm and squeezing gently. “Archie won it for me. Oh! Jughead won you a giraffe too,” she adds, spotting the toy in Betty’s hands. “See, Betty? Aren’t you glad you stuck around?”

There’s a slightly mordant reply on her tongue, but Veronica’s expression is somehow both genuine and a wry kind of challenge, and really—the toy is quite cute. She swallows the thought, smiles, and nods.

Veronica checks her watch, a tiny, sparkly thing. “Sunset should be just over half an hour away,” she says. “We should get in line for the Ferris wheel now. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

No one argues, so they make their way back over to the tallest structure in the fair; it seems plenty of people have had the same idea, as the line is much longer than Betty saw it earlier, but they manage to secure a place that does have them boarding the ride just as the sun begins to disappear behind the horizon. The lights on all the rides have been on all day, just dimly visible, but in the imminent night, they begin to glow brightly against the darkness, all shades of a visual neon orchestra.

They’re two-by-two seats, so once more Betty finds herself seated next to Jughead by default—a circumstance that’s been happening all day, but she supposes is a natural side effect of being mutual third wheels on their friend’s first date—but something about sitting side-by-side on a Ferris wheel at sunset seems…more weighted than just screaming alongside him on a roller coaster.

The metal safety bar closes over their stomachs, and Betty feels it lurch, unsure if it’s the ride or herself. They’re silent as the wheel creaks back to life and the town begins to click into full bird’s eye view. “It looks so small from up here,” she says quietly, tracing the Southside library over to the high school, over to the area she knows her mom’s house is.

Between the brightening rides of the carnival and the yellow lights on the Northside, the Southside looks so much dimmer in comparison to the world in sight. A blank part on a map, even from way up high. She looks back at Jughead, only to find him already watching her.

“What?” She asks, her heart picking up just a beat.

He blinks, and shakes his head. “I was just imagining myself alone at the top of this Ferris wheel while Archie and Veronica make out in the car below me,” he says wryly. “Glad I don’t have to third wheel on my own, honestly.”

Betty tries not to think about Archie and Veronica, who probably _are_ making out five feet below them. “How’d you get roped into it in the first place, anyway?” She asks instead, staring at the spot where she thinks the old baseball diamond is.

Jughead sighs. “Our friend Moose is at Lake Champlain visiting his family, and Reggie is probably wandering around here with some random date, but he made it very clear he was busy. At first I thought Archie felt sorry for me spending the fourth alone, but then again, he’s ditched me for girls plenty of times before. I think Veronica intimidates him, honestly, and he wanted a buffer.”

“She can be intense,” Betty says slowly, her hands covering the bar keeping them tucked into the ride as the cages sway a little in the wind and mechanics. “I feel like I came out of a coma to find out we’d known each other for ten years. She just decided we were friends. She…definitely knows her mind. But I like that.”

“She’ll be good for Archie, then,” Jughead says after a long moment. “He has trouble even picking a type of bagel in the morning. But I take it the full force of Veronica is how _you_ got roped into today.”

Betty sighs, having forgotten about earlier. “I was here with some friends, but something came up and they had to go. And I was just gonna go home, since I didn’t know anyone else here, but Veronica caught me about to leave, which she deemed unacceptable.”

Jughead throws her a funny look. “The whole town is practically here. We were the only people you know?”

“The whole town is not practically here,” she says, her voice flat. “Not when the fair charges for everything from a soda to its straw. I know the mayor’s office makes a big deal about the fourth of July fair every year, but then it just gets more expensive each time. You know, it’s not for everyone when it’s really only about who can afford it.”

He’s silent for a very long moment. “I didn’t think about it like that.”

She looks over at him, and then back over the horizon. Their car begins its descent downwards, clicking quietly in place as it switches each gear.

The world gets bigger with each swing. She has never felt more like the ticking hand of a clock.

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As Betty was reminded from her vantage point up on the Ferris wheel, the fairgrounds stretches beyond the rides and vendors and the petting zoo, enclosing a large field and a lake from which the fireworks will be shot off, but with the sun down now, it won’t be long before the main display, so they decide to spend the last of their tickets on the best dinner a fourth of July fair has to offer.

It turns out to be a feast of corndogs, burgers, corn on the cob, funnel cakes, sodas—nearly every food one would find under an Americana-of-yesteryear label, and Archie procures a couple of sparklers while the rest of them find a grassy hill to camp out on for the big fireworks display.

Veronica props herself up against the large bear, smiling broadly at Archie as he slides in next to her, his arm instantly around her shoulders. As she lies back into the soft grass, the only thing nearby that remains cool to the touch, Betty thinks whatever nerves or hesitancy of touch Archie may have had towards Veronica earlier have certainly dissipated—seems some time alone on the Ferris wheel made all the difference.

The moon brings a blanket of reprieve from the dog day they’ve been having, and though the air is still thick with it all, Betty never minds it; the days where you could cook an egg on the sidewalk are awful, but they always bring the best evenings. Her skin still glows warmly with latent sun long gone, cicadas serenading each other in the darkness.

The rides burn brightly across the fair, distant shrieking and laughter mingling with the night bugs, but the field they’ve found by the lake is milling up with voices too, excitement in the air for the grand event.

After having her fill of their dinner feast, Betty buries herself into the tickling grasses, the little stuffed giraffe as her pillow. There’s a bandstand across the lake, sending vague pop covers of old disco and rock songs floating their way, and a small stampede of children run past them, all carrying sparklers, golden against the hazy night.

Jughead lies in the grass beside her, propped up on his elbows, staring off at the lake and the moon rippling within it. Veronica and Archie murmur something softly to one another, something Betty thinks is not meant to be overheard.

With a pang, she wishes Toni was here. She wishes her sister was here. This is her first fourth without them, she realizes. And yet—it’s not like she’s having a bad time without them. She almost feels guilty for how much it’s been the opposite.

“Oh, it’s starting,” Veronica says from behind, and the whole world seems to hear her, as everything settles down, a buzzing fly suddenly caught. Even the cicadas seem to quiet with anticipation.

It begins with a loud, shooting canon and a rising sizzle, followed by a soft bang that showers the sky in red light. Another pop, a delayed cracking, and a firework of champagne drizzles cover the moon like pearls on a string.

Her lips part, watching as blue explodes across the night, and maybe it’s cliché to be wowed by something as simple as fireworks on the fourth of July, but it’s an awed feeling all the same. Archie leans over her and Jughead’s shoulders, offering them both sparklers, already lit.

She takes it gently, and wonders what it is to hold something so deceptively alive.

“Happy fourth, guys,” Archie says quietly, and it’s almost strange to hear that so unironically. She tries to imagine his tone in Sweet Pea’s typically annoyed voice and it nearly makes her laugh out loud.

The sparkler sizzles in her grip, and she meets Jughead’s eyes over the dancing gold. The fireworks bang off again, and Betty loves the still in the air as it rises up, the near silence just before it explodes.

It cracks into a shower of pinks, the color catching all the angles in his face. He grins at her, and Betty sucks in a breath.

She’s not sure if it’s the light in the sky or the hill they sit on, but at that moment, she thinks she feels the world tilt on it’s axis, if only just a little bit.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: [american girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4XsufDwXu4w) by tom petty, [long cool woman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qKOv3VBJcc) by the hollies,[ i can hear music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qqyx4TW4Ptw) by the beach boys, and [mystery of love ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DCsyocpQyok)by sufjan stevens.
> 
> this chapter is kind of an ode to my own nostalgia, but an important one in terms of laying out subtle shifts and loyalties. but like summer itself, it's the time wherein nothing seems to happen that everything actually changes.
> 
> and for once, i don't have a whole lot else to say in my author's note, but i really hope you guys liked it. sorry for the slower update this time, i was finishing up heart rise above, my other fic.
> 
> and it is fully a coincidence that i am posting this carnival-themed chapter the day before the show airs a carnival-themed episode. idk, it's a strange world. 
> 
> as per request of multiple people, i posted this chapter before doing review replies from the last chapter. i don't like this habit of doing them belatedly but people seem to be okay with it because it meant a faster update---please know i'm getting to it all!! i love your reviews.
> 
> and please leave me some. it means a lot. a lot, a lot, a lot. especially lately.


	8. Chapter 8

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“I want Pop’s for dinner,” JB says as soon as she opens the truck door, throwing her backpack on the floor of the car before she slides in, immediately putting her feet up against the glove box.

Jughead leans over and swipes them off, her feet hitting the truck bottom with a _thud._ “Hello to you too,” he grumbles, sitting back upright so to turn the key into the engine. “And fine. Call it in, we’ll pick it up.”

“I don’t want to go home. I want to eat _at_ Pop’s _,”_ she replies, sounding on the verge of the bratty phantom that he’d foolishly thought he’d exorcised the last of when she was ten.

“JB, I’m exhausted. I’ve been practicing all day and I just want to go home, ice my shoulder, and watch a movie,” he says shortly, turning out of the Greendale high school parking lot and onto the road.

“Well, _he’s_ at home,” JB mumbles a moment later, crossing her arms. “He ignores us, we get to ignore him.”

Jughead sighs, and for a long moment, doesn’t know how to answer that, and wastes a few seconds staring out at the horizon, which looks so limitless under a late summer sky, the stretch of farmland between Greendale and Riverdale mysterious behind it’s grasses, like the tip of the world, just over the hill.

Eventually, he finds his voice, “You have to try to let it go, JB. We both know it was shitty, we both know he can be shitty, but that was weeks ago, and Dad is going to forget about a lot of things for a lot more years, and you’re too young to pick this as your hill to die on.”

“It’s not just about the glass tour,” JB says, her voice petulant, tucking her long hair behind her ears. “It’s…he just…never mind.”

He’s been keeping his eyes trained on the road, but something in her voice finally makes him look over. His sister sits slumped in her seat, looking small against the wide seatbelt, the corn in the window beyond whipping past the frame of her. She stares out at it too, unwilling to meet his eye.

“JB?”

“I said, never mind,” she mutters sharply, and then twists in her seat until her back is to him. “I mean, you don’t even care,” she adds, in a softer voice, still facing the window. “You’re so busy, with baseball and everything.”

“JB, come on. I care,” he says, taking one hand off the wheel to nudge her in the side. He has a feeling this is definitely about more than just their dad standing them up for a tour of the factory, now—but his sister has gotten harder to read lately, and more secretive with her truths. “Hey,” he tries again, and Jughead pokes her twice more, until she finally rolls back and faces him. She tucks her knees up against her chest, her hands folded under her head. “We’ll eat at Pop’s, okay?”

The smallest of thankful smiles forms across her face, and then it ripples, just like water on glass.

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Pop comes and takes their orders, though it remains to mostly be a formality, as it’s not like any of them have ever deviated from their orders, especially within the Jones family.

“Jellybean!” Pop beams down at her, and puts his pad down on the table. He seems to be the one person JB won’t correct on the nickname. “You’ve got good timing, I just refilled the jar. Want to guess today?”

She folds her arms over the laminate, grinning toothily up at him. “Sure,” she says happily, and Pop holds up one finger before disappearing back towards the counter. He returns a moment later with a large jar filled with jellybeans, which JB takes up in her grip at once and pulls towards herself.

“I’ll take your guess when I bring you your food,” Pop says, winking at her. “The usual? Tuna melt and fries, and burger with onion rings?”

Jughead passes him back their menus, which they hadn’t even opened. “And two strawberry milkshakes,” he says, and after a quick nod from Pop, he’s gone.

“What’s going on here?” A voice from over Jughead’s shoulder asks, one he thinks he recognizes. He turns to see Betty behind him, one hand pressing into the red vinyl of the booth, looking—well, as she always looks, he thinks, and isn’t quite ready to admit the word. He’s thought it before, of course, but the word feels different now, after the fourth and all those sparkling lights dancing across his memory of her.

His sister shoots Jughead a funny look, as if waiting to see what he’ll do, and he realizes that he’s been staring up at Betty in silence for a moment too long. “Uh,” he says, clearing his throat. “Betty, hey. This is my little sister, JB.”

A small _ah_ noise escapes Betty’s throat, even though he recalls that she’s once seen JB before, if from afar. She shifts over to the center of the table to shake JB’s hand, and for her part, his sister’s eyes are flicking dangerously fast between the two of them, and it’s a look he’d like to wipe right off her face.

“Are you doing Pop’s jellybean guessing game?” Betty asks, gesturing to the jar in front of JB. “I never got close, but my sister used to be pretty good at it.”

“JB is the best,” Jughead says, and he doesn’t bother hiding the pride in his voice. She rolls her eyes, her cheeks tinged with a blush. “That’s how she got the nickname Jellybean, because she’d get it right nearly every time.”

“But I go by JB now,” she inserts, in a hard tone that implies this a very important fact to clarify. “Better than either alternatives.”

“Your family has an interesting theme going with the nicknames,” Betty murmurs, her lips pursed into a mysterious kind of smile. “Do you have a dog named Goldfish too, or something?”

“I wish,” JB mutters darkly. “I ask for a puppy every year.”

Jughead releases a long-suffering sigh and pulls his eyes off his sister and onto Betty. “How are you doing?”

Betty tilts her head at him, lips still curled. “Well, you know, a lot’s changed in the three days I haven’t seen you.”

The tips of his ears burn, though he’s not exactly sure why. (That’s a lie.)

“Good point,” he says on a breath.

She opens her mouth to say something else, but at that moment someone calls her name, and they all turn towards the sound. It belongs to a guy by the counter, their age but impossibly tall and draped in plaids and leather, clearly someone of Betty’s ilk.

“Order’s up,” he calls, not budging from the counter but his attention trailing suspiciously onto Jughead. He holds up a white paper bag. “Let’s go. They’re waiting for us.”

Betty glances back at them with an apologetic smile. “That’s my cue,” she says with a shrug. “See you around, Jughead. And nice to meet you, JB.”

“Same,” JB replies, waving goodbye to Betty as she turns on her heels, her hands shoved in the back pockets of her blue jeans. He doesn’t mean to, but his eyes follow the whole movement, tracing the appled shape of her, and Jughead twists fully in his seat, watching as the guy who called her name holds the door open for her, which she disappears through.

Jughead turns back around once they’re out of sight, sliding over in the booth, his attention moving to the window to see Betty and her Neanderthal of a friend mounting their motorcycles. His stomach twists, and he wonders if that’s her boyfriend.

She hadn’t mentioned anything, but—why would she have?

By the time he faces his sister, he already knows he’ll hate the look on her face.

“ _Who_ was that,” she says in a drawling, singsong voice, her head wiggling back and forth as she leans in even closer over the table. He distinctly decides she’s never been more annoying than she is right now.

“No one,” he mutters. “A friend.”

“You should see your face,” she smirks, her expression equally smug and equally studious. Distantly, he hears the roar of engines tearing out of the parking lot and tries not to think about it.

He fixes her with his flattest expression, one of his hands cutting through the air between them. “It’s not like that. I barely know her.”

But JB’s grin just stretches even wider across her face, and it doesn’t go away until Pop arrives a few moments later with their dinners in hand. He settles their plates and shakes down in front of them, and then puts his hands on his hips, looking at JB expectantly.

Her attention turns onto the jar, eyes narrowing in sharp focus, lips moving silently with a count. “Six hundred and forty,” she announces after a minute.

Pop shakes his head and smiles in an awed kind of way, as he always does. “Pretty close. Six hundred fifty-two, but that’s within the range for a free dinner.”

“Pop, no,” Jughead says, holding up a hand. “She’s going to put you out of business that way.”

“How about just this last time?” He offers, as if he hasn’t said that so many times before, picking up his pad from the table and slipping it back into his apron pocket. “She earned it.”

JB sits up a little straighter in her seat, unmistakably proud. Jughead sighs and opens his mouth to try to argue it again, although Pop is already walking off. He shoots her a look, and then, thinking of her moodiness earlier, decides to let her have the victory, and drops it.

She shrugs and sips at her milkshake. “It’s not my fault I’m gifted.”

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The next morning, he’s hunched over a bowl of cereal when JB comes ambling down the stairs, still in her pajamas. His eyes immediately jump at the clock; he hasn’t seen her awake before noon on a weekend in what feels like years.

He watches as she selects a bowl and spoon from their respective hiding places, and as soon as she slides onto the counter stool next to him, he presses the back of his hand to her forehead. She swats it away, her lip curled. “What are you doing?”

“It’s before eight am on a Saturday, and you’re up. I just want to make sure you don’t have a fever,” he explains, trying to feel her forehead once more, mostly for comedic effect. She snorts and again pushes his hand off her face, rolling her eyes at him.

“I set an alarm last night for camp. Forgot what day it was,” she grumbles, reaching forward for the cereal and milk he’d set out for himself. She pours the Cheerios into her bowl, clinking quietly against the ceramic.

“Your camp is almost over though, right?” He asks, scooping up his own mouthful of cereal.

“Next week is the last session,” JB sighs, dragging her spoon through the milk. “You’re up earlier than usual too, by the way. Batting cages again?”

If he didn’t know better, he might say JB looked a little concerned for him, but Jughead shakes his head; there’s not much point when he’s going to be spending the next few days training _with_ the National Youth League, now that he’s made the team.

“Couldn’t really sleep,” he says, which isn’t a lie. Fireworks have been exploding behind his eyes for days now every time he closes them for too long. He swallows. “Anyway. What’re you gonna do with yourself for the rest of the summer?”

“Go to the Bijou, I guess,” she replies, throwing him a look. “Be a bookstore rat, I don’t know.”

“Get a job,” he suggests dryly, grinning when her expression of contempt deepens. “Hey, _at_ the bookstore, even.”

“ _You_ get a job,” she sneers back. “Besides, I already have one. It’s called annoying you.”

“Ah. Then you’re probably due for a raise,” he laughs, pushing off the bar stool and putting his finished bowl in the sink. “Anyway, I gotta go pack for training. It’s only a few days, but—”

“Wait,” JB says, as she too slides off her stool. She crosses the kitchen into the living room, where her backpack lays thrown onto one of the couches. She rifles through it and then emerges back into the kitchen, a collection of stapled papers in her hands, which she offers out to him. “Will you read my story from my creative writing class?”

He takes it gingerly, eyebrows raised. “Really?”

She tucks a strand of black hair behind her ear, attempting an unaffected shrug. “Yeah. I don’t know. You used to read a lot, I figure you’d be a good set of eyes on it. Read it while you’re at training, or something. I could use some feedback.”

“Alright, I will,” Jughead replies, doing his best to keep the smile off his face, as he knows it’ll embarrass JB off from possibly ever trying something like this with him again. She’s been such a imminent teenager lately, so moody, and it’s sometimes hard to reconcile his shooting beanstalk of a sister with the bubbly little girl whose drawings of the family lived on the fridge.

But then again, he was the one who put them there, and this feels…oddly like that again.

JB grins at him and slips back onto the stool to finish her breakfast, and before heading upstairs to pack, he glances back over his shoulder—just once—memorizing her there in the kitchen, tracing over her, just to remember her as she is now.

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The next morning, Jughead dresses and comes downstairs to find a bright-eyed FP already lingering by the door. “I already put your bag in the car,” he says, clapping Jughead over the shoulders. “First day of training,” he adds, in as close to a teasing, singsong voice as his father might be capable of. “It’s gonna be great. It’ll kick your ass in the best kind of way, I bet.”

Still feeling groggy from his dreams, Jughead grunts in agreement, following his father out towards the garage as he rubs at his eyes.

“We’ll stop at Pop’s for coffee, kid,” FP says, seemingly amused by the reversal of his son as the groggy, half-awake one; more amused than Jughead is, anyway.

It’s not exactly a long drive to New Jersey, where the training sessions are held, but they’ll be jumping right into practice once they’re signed in and Jughead will probably need at least two coffee refuelings at some point throughout the trip, given how little he slept last night.

After the first stop at Pop’s for the liquid solution, his father hasn’t stopped drilling Jughead on questions—what his best pitch is, what he should be working on, what’s his mile time—and he knows— _knows_ —his father is just being supportive, and truthfully he’d rather have this engaged, excited version of FP, but it just sends nerves straight to his stomach.

He tries to level his eyes onto the horizon, thinking maybe he’s just carsick, or there’s too much coffee sloshing around in his gut.

But he knows why as they pull up to Rutgers, the university where training will take place, when he catches Jughead’s eye just before he’s about to unbuckle his seatbelt.

“We’re all expecting great things from you, kid,” he says warmly, a look on his face Jughead doesn’t often see uninhibited. “You’re going farther than I ever did, you know,” he adds, the smiling dimming, just slightly. “But I’m proud of you, son. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know, Dad,” he replies quietly, eyes downcast. Jughead swallows, and opens the car door.

.

.

.

Hours later, he steps out onto the grass, thick with early morning dew, the softness of the ground sliding up through the bottom of his cleats. The other boys line up from home plate to first base, and he follows in suit, tucking his hands behind his back. He’s fairly sure his father has left to go back to Riverdale by now, but it wouldn’t be unlike him to hang around practice, and in case he’s watching, Jughead straightens up.

A white sun glares at him from the underside of his baseball cap, but he forces himself to keep his eyes up, as the coach has left the dugout and is moving towards the group of them.

“Alright boys,” he says, in what is clearly a local and thick New Jersey accent. “I’m Coach Newell, Today marks the first day of training for Nationals—you should be very proud of the accomplishments that brought you here ahead of all others. So savor that moment, because at the end of today’s training, you might regret it.”

It’s standard coach pep talk to use scare tactics about rigorous training, but Jughead’s stomach feels as though it drops right out of him all the same. He glances back over his shoulder, and can’t see his father, and hopes that means he’s left. The coach takes a quick roll check of the roster, and after introducing the assistant couches, he shoves his clipboard under his arm and flashes a cryptic kind of smile.

“Now—round the bases, fifteen minutes!” Coach Newell blows on his whistle. “Go!”

Jughead cracks his neck, and then turns, following in suit with the rest of the line of boys as they curve around the diamond. Each time the soft pillow of base _thumps_ underfoot, with each wipe of his forehead against the early morning humidity, the worries get further and further in Jughead’s mind, until all he can hear is the sound of his own breathing.

.

.

.

After the fifteen minutes have passed, the coach has them move to sprints from home base to outfield, which they do for five minutes, and then back to base running for another fifteen. But by then, Jughead’s left the wheezing and sidesplitting behind him and shifted into the runner’s high, his adrenaline overpowering any other physical slowdowns.

The coach blows on his whistle again to signal the end, and the boy next to Jughead nearly doubles over, his hands on his knees. He has more of a catcher’s build, and might be less accustomed to endurance training with his home team, because he’s completely red in the face and looks on the verge of losing his stomach.

“Good work, boys,” Coach Newell says, smiling in his thin way. “Sorry to lay it on you out of the gate, but we’ve got to run early in the morning, or I’ll have a trip to the hospital on my hands.”

Jughead stretches out his arms overhead, his heart hammering loudly against his chest now that they’ve slowed down. He agrees with the coach, glad to have gotten this part of the training out of the way for the day. Untucking his baseball shirt from his pants, he uses the hem to wipe the sweat off his face.

“We’re switching to positions now,” the coach says, holding up his clipboard. He lists off a few names, and then assigns Jughead with a kid whose last name is Shores, and who, based on the gesture from the coach, is apparently the same one that nearly fainted a few minutes ago and is currently chugging Gatorade by the gallon.

Shores has sandy hair, a smattering of freckles, and a pinched but friendly face—and seems to live up to such as they make their introductions, settling into a spot along the makeshift batting cage by first base to practice their catching and throwing. They discuss a bit of strategy, and Jughead decides to work on his curveballs, which has lately been the one he’s struggled with most. He’s been practicing too much with Archie, he thinks, because Archie can only hit straight on, and it’s made any of the up-his-sleeve moves seem rusty.

After what feels like a couple of hours under the hot sun—but what could truthfully be only one—Jughead’s cotton baseball shirt is sweated all the way through and Shores is beginning to rub at his bent knees, they hear the coach’s whistle blow.

There’s a collective murmuring and groaning in relief across the field, and they all cross towards home base, where the coach and a table full of water, Gatorade, and snacks are waiting. Jughead is certain he consumes about half his body weight in liquid in record time, wiping the sweat from his brow once more and catching each heartbeat loudly in his chest.

The beat goes on.

.

.

.

Eventually, the coach blows his final whistle for the day and escorts them over to the dorm rooms on campus; it turns out practice partners doubles as bunk partners, and once more Jughead finds himself falling in step with Shores and two other boys, as the room they’ve been assigned is apartment style.

The other boys introduce themselves as Adam and Ambrose, and seem nice enough, although they appear to be cut from the same star-spangled cloth as Archie, so All-American and broad-faced that Jughead wonders if there’s a secret to success in A-lettered alliteration.

Ambrose slides their assigned key into the door, and immediately dumps his sports bag by the entrance, sliding comically downwards into the first seat he can find, which is furnished in the kind of gray-wool-pseudo-office-furniture that he’d expected in a college dorm room.

The rest follow him inside, Adam pushing the hat off his head to reveal a mop of dark auburn curls, reminding him even more of Archie a bit, and then pokes his head into one of the open room doors. “Two beds per room,” he says as he walks back into the common space, and then kicks his duffle into the room he’d just inspected and joins Ambrose on the couch, looking winded and beat in a way Jughead thinks he must as well.

It’s not like Coach Clayton doesn’t run practices hard in Riverdale, and sure, he’s definitely a bit more prepared for the cardio element than Shores seemed to be, but the fatigue he sees on his bunkmates faces is reflected in the ache of his body—he can’t remember the last time he felt so exhausted all the way down to this bones.

Dinner is downstairs in the college cafeteria and won’t be out for at least another hour, so Jughead decides to spend the time trying to rest his weary muscles and collapses onto a free bed in the other room, his bag dropping to the floor beside it.

In the living room area, he can hear voices beginning to float—it seems Shores, Ambrose, and Adam are very interested in this season’s MLB draft picks and their new favorite rookies. Jughead thinks it’s Adam talking about who he saw playing out in Scottsdale this summer, but he doesn’t really care enough to move, even to close the door.

Instead, he leans down over the bed, and rifles through his duffle for the essay JB gave him yesterday. He turns onto his back, holding the paper up to the light filtering through the open window.

A bluebird chirps in a tree outside, and he lets himself be lost in his sister’s words.

When he finishes it, he lays the papers flat against his chest and presses the skin of his hands into them so hard it crinkles. It’s just enough roughly written that he’ll be able to go over it with a red pen for her, but what really haunts him is the fact that, although JB uses other names for the characters, it’s clearly about their parents, and waxing as it is over the dark-haired shells, it seems to give off a very bitter air.

He doesn’t really know what to think about that.

He sits up, though his body dimly protests the action. He glances over to the window, and sees the bird is gone.

.

.

.

The next three days follows in similar suit; breakfast at the cafeteria, training in the early morning through till the afternoon, followed by showers, lectures on tactical maneuvers and game plans, and then dinner back in the cafeteria, followed by lights out in the dorms.

Jughead gets to know his roommates a little better; he likes Shores and Adam enough, although thinks Ambrose is something of a snob. (Then again, he’s known far snobbier people, particularly the Blossoms, so maybe he shouldn’t dwell.) But mostly, and what he thinks over and over, is that— _Jesus Christ, these guys really love baseball._

Maybe it’s just that he’s used to being that person, the one who cares the most about the sport, the one following league statistics, rookie players, draft theories—but then he thinks that he gets all that information from his dad anyway, and starts to realize he’s not really all that interested in talking about it from dawn till dusk, not when they’re training this hard for this long.

In fact, he’s starting to wonder if there’s anything _else_ these guys are capable of discussing.

Jughead socializes as much as necessary to get away without seeming rude, which he only decides to do because these are his teammates and it’s important to maintain that relationship, but truthfully, he spends as much time as he can in his room, surprised to find himself lost in the pages of the book he’d only brought last minute.

He’d offered to return _Just Kids_ to the library for his sister, but had run out of time before he left, and had ended up stashing it in his duffle. But now—he doesn’t want to put it down until it’s the call for lights out and Shores breathing turns to a light snoring.

Eventually, Jughead closes his eyes too.

He’s still dreaming of fireworks.

.

.

.

At the end of the fifth day, after one last dinner in the college cafeteria, the whole team shares their temporary goodbyes—Jughead plugs the phone numbers of his roommates into his phone as the coaches make their speeches and remind everyone to practice everything they’ve learned and gone over in between now till the next training session—and afterwards, they all pile out towards the parking lot where they’d first been dropped off.

He scans the crowd of parents for his own father—and sees, with a jolt to his stomach, instead a familiar flash of red through the haze of imminent dusk.

Archie waves him over, leaning up against Fred’s truck, and Jughead’s feels his heart sink right into his stomach. It’s not that he minds seeing Archie, but if he’s here, he knows the likely chain of events, and it’s not pleasant to think about.

Both boys seem to be thinking the same thing, because up close, Archie’s smile turns wan as Jughead throws his bag into the bed of the truck. “My dad is working late today,” he says ruefully, as they’re opening doors. “Or he definitely would’ve come.”

“I get it,” Jughead mutters, clicking into his seatbelt. _My dad is drinking late today, or he definitely would’ve come,_ he thinks, in a voice that does not sound like his own, but maybe that’s just because they’re words he’s never said out loud.

He guesses he doesn’t really know _how_ it would sound. He does wish he knew why his father keeps doing this, especially when he'd been so clear-eyed last time he saw him. 

Archie gears up the engine, and Jughead slams the door shut.

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As they tear up Highway 287 back to Riverdale, Archie’s fingers tap against the wheel of his truck in time with the beat, singing along just audibly over a hum. It’s some kind of steely rock, a heartland lullaby, and one that Archie clearly knows all the words to. And then he stops, so suddenly that Jughead glances over.

After a moment, eyes forward, he says, “I wish I could do this.”

“What, keep driving until you see the sun rise?” Jughead jabs, grinning. Archie meets his look, and he isn’t laughing.

“No, I mean…music,” he says slowly, half like this must be obvious, and already half embarrassed if it isn’t. True, Archie’s always had a predilection towards the genre, but beyond a tuning and twanging on the spare movie night, he hasn’t ever seen Archie pursue it further, or even mention the desire to. Jughead chalked it up to his version of giving up writing. You just can’t fit everything on one plate. “You know my mom got me a new guitar last Christmas, right?”

He says it like this is some kind of parabolic symbol from ancient gods, and Jughead suddenly feels more confused, sitting more upright in his seat. “And?”

“And…I don’t know, I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, with college applications coming up. I don’t think football is for me like baseball is for you,” Archie says, and some kind of stone seems to form in Jughead’s stomach right then and there. He swallows, and Archie continues, “It’s like…football is the car, but music is the engine.”

Never exactly known for his emotional platitudes or way with words, it takes Jughead a moment to sift through, and by the time he thinks he understands what Archie’s trying to say, he’s talking again. “And I want to have enough time with Ronnie this year, because I really like her. That’s why Val broke up with me, and like, I think I get it now. How football kept getting in the way,” he says, fingers tapping against the wheel again, but in a different beat. One, two.

Jughead focuses on the horizon, trying very hard not to think of the color yellow, or definitely not fireworks again.

“Like, I know sports are supposed to take me out of Riverdale. Get me to college. It’s what everyone expects,” he says, and Jughead finally glances over, chewing on his lip. “Because it’s the cheapest path, you know? I mean, Dad’s doing okay with work, but he’s been working late a lot, and Mom makes good money, I think, but…”

 _But we’re not you,_ is almost what Archie seems to want to say. _We’re still not rich._

“But I just don’t know how you do it, Jug,” Archie says after another long pause.

He doesn’t clarify what exactly _it_ is, but there’s awe in his voice and his eyes are on the road, seemingly with meaning, and Jughead decides he doesn’t want to ask, not really.

Instead, he stares out the window and chews on the inside of his cheek. The stone in his stomach travels upwards until his chest feels heavy with—something solid, dark, and polished. Like a ball of iron sitting where something else should be.

It should be concerning, not only that he’s starting to recognize this sensation, but that it seems to be worsening. He’d felt in the car with his dad, at the airport, all the way up to tryouts. He’d called it nerves, but then it hadn’t gone away, even after he’d made the team.

But—Jughead knows he doesn’t want to know what it is. It’s a question he’s not asking himself for a reason.

Not yet, anyway.

.

.

 

“Hey, can I crash with you tonight?” Jughead asks, as soon as the road signs start to look familiar. “I think JB’s having a sleepover and it’ll be kinda late by the time we get back.” He almost throws in his old standby excuse— _I hate driving up that hill in the dark_ —which he does actually dislike doing—but Archie appears to understand at once and doesn’t require more explanation. The implication is all there.

“Yeah, dude. We can get a pizza,” Archie says easily, but with a sidelong kind of look, the same kind he’s been throwing him the whole way back. Jughead thinks it’s the way someone looks at a stray dog, one they’d like to help, but not sure if it’ll bite.

He sighs.

Riverdale flashes neon in greeting as they pass the Pop’s sign by the highway, and before long, they’re pulling onto Archie’s street. The sun sings lowly above them, the late light filtering through the lushness of the trees. It’s a dappled kind of glow, but strange and surreal against the houses whose lights have already turned on, signaling evening arriving earlier indoors than out.

But he supposes that’s the way it always is.

As Archie slows the truck into his own driveway, they pass Betty’s house, and like many of the houses in the block, there’s a light on—but it’s only the garage light, the rest of the house dark. The door is open, and he gets a long look at her poured over a popped engine, in those same overalls from before.

The thought occurs to him before he can even put it into words. It’s just—he suddenly feels like wanting a bit more company.

Archie kills the engine, and before he can open the driver’s door, Jughead opens his mouth. “Let’s invite Betty.”

His hand freezes on the handle, throwing Jughead a funny look. “Really?”

“Yeah, I just saw her, as we went past. I mean, I told her you owed her pizza a while ago. And we’re ordering pizza. It’s not _that_ crazy a logical leap,” he adds, in a dubious kind of voice, because the expression on Archie’s face has wormed into something else and it’s no less annoying on him than it was on his sister.

“Whatever you want,” Archie says, slipping out of the truck. “I’ll see you inside.” He grins at Jughead through the glass, just distorted enough, and then turns on his heel towards the house.

Blowing out another breath, Jughead pulls on the door handle himself, and the sound of the door shutting behind him seems a bit deafening against his heartbeat, somehow. Slowly, he makes his way around the fence dividing the Andrews and the Coopers, stepping carefully into the thrown light from the garage. Betty’s tools clink against some kind of falteringly vague music, and he stands there for a silly amount of time before he manages to clear his throat.

Betty looks up and over, and then fully around, her eyes wide upon him. They soften as soon as they adjust to the light. “Been standing there long?”

“No,” he says, although truthfully, he’s not sure quite on the time. “I was just coming to—”

But he stops himself there, because now he’s moved closer and can get a better look at her, and the redness of her eyes kills the words in his throat. She seems to realize this, because she immediately turns her head back down onto the engine. For a moment, he swallows against the words and hesitantly steps up next to her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, giving a tight twist of her wrench onto a screw. Her tone, plus how tensely she’s working with her tools, easily belies this. She seems to realize it too, and then, “I just got some news I’d known was a long time coming, but still…feels awful.” After another long moment, she exhales and looks up at him. “I lost my job.”

“Shit,” he says at once, though a bit relieved to find out no one in her life has died, or whatever else morbid train of thought was forming in his head. “What happened?”

“Like I said, it was a long time coming,” Betty says, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand. “I worked at the roller rink. We’ve been dead all summer, and practically the whole spring before that, and my boss hadn’t let on how bad the finances were. I’d had an idea, but… Anyway, I got the news today that we’re shutting down.”

“Oh,” Jughead mumbles, unsure what else to say. “That sucks; that place was cool. My sister had a couple of birthday parties there.”

A little laugh bubbles out of her. “Yeah,” she agrees, and then puts her wrench down. “Exactly! It’s just…like you said, everyone in town has been there, from both sides. We all have memories of it. Good ones! It was an _institution!_ And now it’s…it’s…”

She’d been getting a little worked up, voice steadily mounting, and then appears to catch herself, putting her hands on her hips. He’d be lying if he didn’t think the rise in her eyes was…well, admirable.

When it seems like she’s deliberately not saying anything else, he tries to find his words. “I’m sorry about your job, really. It sucks. But you’ll get another,” he suggests lamely, and immediately wants to kick himself for it. The fuck does he know about things like this, when he’s never worked a day in his life?

But Betty just smiles at him, a bit softly, almost like she’s thinking the same thing, but maybe in a much fonder way. And then the look turns expectant, and Jughead remembers why he came over in the first place.

He clears his throat. “Well…I was just gonna let you know Arch and I are ordering pizza and are gonna watch something, if you wanted to join us. I don’t know if you have dinner plans with your Dad, but—”

She shakes her head. “He’s not here. He’s out of town,” she says, in a strange voice, casting a long look up at the dark house. And then her attention turns back onto the car, which she gestures to vaguely. “I’m at my Mom’s this week, I just came here because I wanted to do something…productive.”

Something about her words have weight to them, as if she’s confused with herself, or perhaps still angry with some kind of larger players, or maybe both. She stares into the engine for a long moment before eying him curiously.

“But um…a movie and pizza actually sounds kind of nice right now,” she says, sighing. The corners of her lips just barely curve, and subconsciously, he swallows a bit, the word he’d like to label her inching ever more forward in his thoughts. She glances back at the house once more. “I’m just gonna change, and then I’ll come over?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he replies, wanting to kick himself for how pitched his voice sounds to his own ears, or wondering if that’s his own nerves. He wonders what it is, this thrumming in his throat. “Just come in through the back door,” he adds, before slipping out of the garage.

He just gets around the fence when he hears the popped engine hood shutting closed and a light fluttering of footsteps, ones he somehow feels all the way into his chest.

Whatever it was between them that night under the fireworks, gold and pink falling all across her face in a way that made his breath catch—he knows now something has shifted, at least for him.

It probably can’t, or won’t, go back to the way it was, simmering below the surface.

He’s not sure if he would want it to.

.

.

.

“So where’s Betty?” Archie asks when Jughead reappears through the kitchen door, barely looking up from his phone. The question sounds innocent, but there’s a glimmer in Archie’s eyes that is so uncharacteristically knowing that it nearly makes Jughead trip.

Feeling his neck grow hot, he glances down at the kitchen island. There’s a couple of takeout menus scattered on the countertop, the papers curling at the corners, making them look like they’ve been there a while; he wonders how long it is that Fred has been working late.

“She’s coming in a few,” Jughead says, drumming his knuckles on the countertop, unwilling to sit down for the bouncing in his knees. He pulls his eyes away from the back door to see Archie grinning up at him, his caterpillar eyebrows unable to hide a thought. Jughead scowls. “What?”

“I don’t know dude, is there something you want to maybe tell me? Maybe…something that happened, like at the fourth?” He asks, a smile growing intransigently to Jughead’s frown. “I mean, I’ve never seen you like this.”

Jughead doesn’t ask _like what_ because he knows what Archie means, as he hasn’t been able to stop fidgeting since he walked over to the garage; he doesn’t ask _like what_ because he hasn’t been able to revisit the idea yet, not until it feels like less of a risk. He plays with his hands and chews on the inside of his cheek, buying a moment for a gathered word.

“Don’t make me say it,” he sighs finally.

“Okay, I won’t,” Archie replies, tilting his head back to look at him better. He’s always taken most after his mom, but he looks so much like Fred when he looks proud—it’s a strange expression to find in a best friend and not a parental figure. “But _you_ probably should, at some point, you know.”

“Yeah, and we should probably end world hunger at some point too,” Jughead grumbles, pushing away from the kitchen island and stalking around it towards the fridge, where he grabs himself a soda. He’s just cracked the can open when the back door swings open and Betty steps through, her hair still up, wearing a pair of black jeans, a white t-shirt, and a very oversized jean jacket.

The light falls on her face, and he inhales through a smile.

Her grip runs across the hem of the jacket, and she moves against the island. She returns the look.

“Hey Betty,” Archie says, breaking the moment, but Jughead’s grateful for it, as her head turns towards him, as if noticing he’s there for the first time.

“Hi,” she replies, _sotto voce._ “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Thank Jughead, but yeah, anytime,” Archie says, standing up and throwing Jughead an imperceptible look. “You guys go pick a movie, I’ll order the pizzas, since I guess I owe you both some. What kind do you like, Betty?”

“Oh.” She sounds kind of surprised that this was an offer followed through on, and he guesses he can’t blame her, because it had sounded fake even to himself the first time he said it. “Veggie, I guess? No olives.”

“You got it,” Archie says, in his most Captain America voice. Jughead knows he won’t even bother asking himself what he wants, considering how many times he’s ordered it for him. “Movies are under the TV cabinet.”

“Analog, huh?” She says, brushing past both of them and wandering through to the living room, her hands shoved in the pocket of the jacket.

With her back now facing them, Archie looks at Jughead, and then at Betty, his eyes bulging, and he throws his head in her direction, very clearly signaling for him to follow her. Jughead waves an annoyed hand and dawdles after her into the other room, where she’s already crouching in front of the TV and running her fingers along the DVD cabinet.

“We can stream something on Netflix too, if nothing catches your eye,” he says, pressing his knee into the wood of the cabinet. Betty grins up at him and drags her fingers over one DVD to pull it out, holding it up for him to see. He snorts at the well-worn, familiar cover. “I don’t even want to tell you how many times _Field of Dreams_ has been played in this house.”

She offers it up to him, a wry smile on her face. “Again for posterity?”

He takes it, rubbing his thumb loosely over the laminate. “Honestly, I’ve had enough baseball for this week,” he says, sounding strangely ruminate to his own ears. He hands it back to her.

Betty’s eyes rove over him for a beat, and then puts the DVD back in place. She takes a longer time perusing the shelf, and then digs out another. “Okay. _The Witches of Eastwick?”_

 _Well, fuck_ , he thinks jokingly, with an audible laugh, grinning at her. He thinks he should probably kiss her right then and there, if that’s her taste in films.

“Excellent choice,” he says instead, and slowly, Betty gets to her feet, her knees uncurling as she rises upwards. He hadn’t realized how closely he was standing by her, only now that she’s upright.

“Pizza’s ordered. Be here in forty,” Archie announces, meandering into the room, clapping in a way as if to dust something off his hands. He slows as his eyes fall on them, flicking to Jughead apologetically, and he dimly wishes if there was ever a chance for Archie to be subtle for once in his life, now would be it.

Not so lucky.

“Betty, _you_ should definitely sit on the couch. It’s the best seat in the house, and you’re the guest,” Archie says surreptitiously, gesturing towards it when Betty moves for the lone chair. “I’ll take the armchair.”

He flops down onto it, still staring at Jughead pointedly, as if that choice didn’t leave him any other option but to sit next to Betty. Which—he’s not complaining about, and he knows Archie is trying to help, but he wishes he wasn’t being quite so obvious. Jughead exhales and then sets up the DVD and its player, and once it’s ready, walking around the back of the furniture to flick off the living room lights.

Jughead hops over the back of the couch, settling just far enough away from Betty that it doesn’t look like he’s trying anything, but not too far that it could look like he wouldn’t want to.

Then again, he’s probably over thinking it. (Definitely over thinking it.)

He leans forward and presses play on the remote, and when he settles back in against the cushions, Archie is holding something maroon out to him.

“Blanket?” He asks with dripping faux-innocence, and Jughead widens his eyes at him warningly, but Archie just tosses it into his lap and grins, and then turns his attention onto the opening credits.

Jughead glances back over at Betty, who is pulling her hair from its ponytail and running her hands through it. He watches the movement, and her eyes flick over at him, but she doesn’t stop pushing her fingers through the golden strands. He has a scarcely resistible desire to do it for her. He wonders if it’s as soft to the touch as it looks.

“Blanket?” He whispers in echo, rolling his eyes, and she stifles a giggle and nods, allowing half of it to settle over her lap. He lays the other half onto his knees, though he is sure to keep his hands on top of the chenille throw.

It’s only just over a third into the film, when the doorbell rings for the pizzas and Archie pauses the movie to retrieve them, that he allows himself to look back at her again. She’s picking at a bit pilled fabric on the blanket, but meets his eye nearly at once.

He realizes, once more, and much more clearly, that he’d really like to kiss her. But it doesn’t feel like something to joke about this time.

And then he thinks, _shit._

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: [the big country](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dErdvJrv8JE) by the talking heads, [spirit in the sky](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZQxH_8raCI) by norman greenbaum (for jughead's training, lmao, because it's _so_ baseball), [only to live in your memories](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVo6taMIGpQ&list=RDPVo6taMIGpQ) by night moves, and [it's elizabeth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8bhVjP0wT70) by part time for betty at the end ;)
> 
> shorter author's note this time---i've got some family issues right now kind of distracting me. but i will say that this chapter is about groundwork; we needed to have at least some time spent with the baseball stuff, as it comes back in an interesting way for jug. and it's also about---mirrors in some of the larger themes of the story. hopefully that came across.
> 
>  _and_ this chapter is also the prelude to a bit of a snowball---those wondering about a lot more bughead interactions are gonna get it very very soon. ;)
> 
> also, i took some liberties with the national youth league system. don't press me on it, lmao. 
> 
> i'm sorry to behind on review replies still---i'm the worst, but as i said, there are some serious health problems in my family rn and i'm a little scattered. but please drop me a review, i could really use some today because of that. hope you enjoyed this chapter!!!


	9. Chapter 9

Jughead falls asleep about half an hour before the movie ends.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his head loll back against the edge of the couch, and she turns to look at him just as a light snore escapes his mouth. Archie’s attention darts over at that, and they exchange twin amused grins.

“I think he’s really tired,” Archie whispers, almost apologetically. “I just picked him up from league training a few hours ago. They probably ran him really hard.”

Betty nods, allowing a moment wherein she just studies him, thinking privately no one should look that good in slumber, and then glances back at Archie. “What should we do?”

He shrugs, voice still hushed. “He was gonna crash on the couch anyway. Do you wanna finish the movie?”

Oddly, Betty’s instinct is to say—not if he needs to sleep. She’s seen the movie before, and she’d agreed to come over because she didn’t really want to be alone in that garage, but his company had relaxed her in an unanticipated way; maybe the least she can do is give him the entire couch.

She shakes her head, and Archie reaches over to press pause on the remote. As he gets up to flick on the lights and combine all the pizza boxes and their leftovers into a pile, Betty starts to readjust Jughead onto the couch.

A murmured, indistinguishable noise sounds in his throat only after she’s gotten him horizontal, just enough to make Betty wonder if he’s just woken up. His eyes remain closed, but he does roll over onto his side, inadvertently trapping her hand under his shoulder, which makes her smile. Gingerly, she pulls it out from under the warmth of his skin.

She’s just finished tucking the chenille blanket up around his shoulders when Archie comes back into the living room, one box of pizza in his hands.

“Your leftovers,” he whispers quietly, eyes flicking between her and Jughead in a way that makes her cheeks burn, even though she tries to tell herself there’s no reason for her to blush. Nothing was happening.

After all, she did the same thing for Archie weeks ago.

But she walks back to her father’s house, the pizza box in her grip, and thinks to herself: _It didn’t feel the same._

.

.

.

Betty deposits what’s left of the pizza in the fridge, and then stands with her back pressed against the kitchen counter for a long moment, her hands reaching back to grip the marble behind her.

She _should_ go back to her Mom’s.

It’s her week, and if she doesn’t sleep there tonight, there might be a wrath she’d regret easily avoiding. On the other hand, Betty didn’t get as much work done on the engine as she’d like, and would probably come back here tomorrow anyway. There’s also the fact that it’s nearly midnight, and it’s not safe to drive the motorcycle if she’s this tired, especially when there’s a cozy bed waiting upstairs.

She then cycles through what must be a Goldilocks-like paradox as she realizes—that’s _her_ bed, really, and why does she have to justify wanting to sleep there? It’s been years since she resented her parents’ separation this viscerally, but Betty finds herself glaring off at nothing, and with that, decides to just go upstairs.

There’s not much in the way of pajamas here, but there is the Ithaca College sweatshirt from her father that she’d stashed in a drawer, and it’ll do if she sleeps in her underwear.

She knows her mother is asleep now and won’t see the text till morning, so after she shoots off a text explaining where she’s sleeping, Betty changes clothes and climbs under the covers, which are mercifully cool to the touch against the lingering humidity, but for as tired as she’d felt downstairs, Betty lies there with her hands pressed over the duvet, biting her lip as she glances up at the pink, floral ceiling, because she knows sleep won’t come easily.

She’s pretty sure Jughead likes her.

It’s a theory she’s buried down since last week, partially because it felt like a real can of worms. If she admitted to herself she thought he had feelings for her, the inevitable question of what she felt might come next, and thus, what she’d want to happen between them.

And that’s a dangerous thread of thought; not just because she thinks she _knows,_ especially after tonight, especially after the quickening in her heartbeat when he looked at her, the pooling of warmth just below her stomach afterwards, but because she also _doesn’t_ know what would follow that impulse.

She could satisfy the idea that maybe she wants to make out with him a few times, just to quell a bit of this growing tension, but it would have to end there. The idea that Jughead—small town hero on a pitcher’s mound—and Betty—a girl without a job, without any other direction in life other than _out…_

What, they’re supposed to date, be sweethearts? 

It doesn’t work like that. Nothing works like that.

 _Boys are distractions,_ she’d told herself right after Polly dropped out, feeling like maybe there was more than one lesson there, because not longer after that, there were no more flashes of red at the windows.

She’d seen how this game works. It was the same for her mother, same for her sister. They’d fallen prey to a shiny, pretty new teenage love, and then it took them off track and ruined their lives.

 _Love is a tar pit,_ Betty thinks, eyes on the ceiling. _Leaves nothing but an imprint of you._

And yet, she can’t quite shake Jughead from her thoughts, either. The lingering looks he’d given her, the clenching in her stomach over them. The fluttering in her chest.

She tosses and turns all night.

.

.

.

The next morning, her bedroom is impossibly bright, throwing sunlight across her eyes, and Betty squints and stretches against it, realizing she usually wakes before the sunbeams reach her bed.

But then again, she usually doesn’t fall asleep that late, either. And definitely not for the reasons she did.

Betty groans and throws her forearm over her eyes for a long minute, stupidly hoping that if she just blocks out the light, she’ll be able to go back to sleep. But it quickly proves useless, and she resigns to the rising fate.

She grunts and sits upright against the pillows, glances at the clock, and quite deliberately doesn’t look at her phone, because she’s not awake enough to deal with what will be her mother’s hundreds of texts about her whereabouts.

The house is airy and empty as she pads downstairs; no vision of her father bumbling around with the coffee pot or burning poptarts, and without him, with the floors so clean and the light filtering in so fresh—Betty feels…relaxed.

Sure, she still thinks this house is still too big for one person, or maybe even two people, but as she stares at a spot on the wall where the shadow of a tree stretches in through a window, she finds she doesn’t mind it now that she’s here alone.

Betty stretches with her arms over her head, makes herself a quick scramble, toast, and a pot of coffee, which she takes back upstairs and eats in the window alcove of the—well, her bedroom. From this spot, she can see Archie’s window, though the curtains are drawn and she doesn’t know why she looked over when she knows Jughead slept on the couch. The vantage also offers a good view of the road, where she watches the postman pushing his little mail cart.

She bites into her toast and watches him deliver only one letter into her father’s mailbox.

After she’s finished eating, Betty washes her face, dresses back into yesterday’s white t-shirt and the pair of overalls she stashes here, and decides to open the window to let the warm breeze curl through the house, the air at once fresh on her face, the sunlight now shifted elsewhere across the floor.

Betty decides to leave her phone in her room and takes the mug and plate back downstairs. After dumping the plate in the sink and topping off her coffee and refilling it with sugary creamer, she makes her way out to the garage and can tell right away it’s not as humid as it’s been the past few weeks, an appreciated reprieve for a person who plans to spend her day leaning over car parts.

She opens the garage door and pops the engine hood back up, staring down at her handiwork from yesterday. She’s used to having her father look over her work before finishing for the day, but he’s got manuals strewn everywhere in the workshop, and she thinks it’s looking good. Today she needs to get the camshaft and suspension figured out, and flips to the appropriate section of the Volvo manual, her fingers tracing against the words.

It’s been about an hour when she hears someone clear their throat behind her. Thinking it’s her father, home days early because some kind of intruder alarm went off that she didn’t plan for, Betty quickly turns with an apology on her tongue.

But—in a moment of what feels like déjà vu, it’s Jughead, wearing the same grass-stained baseball shirt as yesterday, white with black sleeves, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He smiles at her. “Hey,” he says, in a low, strange kind of voice.

Betty feels herself stand up a little straighter and her throat tighten, even if she wonders what he’s doing here again. “You know, I’m starting to think you actually just live next door.”

He throws her a flat, but amused, look. “I’m waiting for Archie to come out so he can take me home, for the record. I do have a house elsewhere.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she says, and hears the curl to her voice belatedly, but Jughead’s eyes widen slightly, and she watches his Adam’s apple bob.

“Fair enough,” he says quickly, licking his lips. “Well, I just...wanted…to… Um, apologize for falling asleep last night.”

She can’t help the way her grin worms into a smaller smile, almost amused, feeling a bit more confident in her assessment of his feelings for her. “It’s okay. Archie said you were training earlier that day. I get it.”

He takes a step closer. “Yeah, but—I was having a good time. Sorry to cut it short.”

Betty exhales and tilts her head at him, feeling now both a sense of thrill and worry; she hasn’t come at all closer to deciding what to do about this thing between them, but seeing him in a new morning light just makes her realize how fast it’s growing. And this apology from him now feels quite like an excuse just to talk to her, which isn’t something she finds herself minding, but—

“No problem. You were tired,” she says, far breathier than she’d like.

For a long moment, Jughead just looks at her, his shoulders fidgeting. “Listen,” he says, finally. “I was sort of—well, I mean, I was wondering, if maybe—”

The moment of panic on her end that follows, however, isn’t from what’ll come at the end of his stammering, but due to the roar of an engine tearing down their block. Both Betty and Jughead turn towards the sound, and seconds later, a motorcyclist pulls to a full stop in front of the garage drive, long, blonde hair rippling ominously at the rider’s back.

“Crap. That’s my sister,” Betty sighs, throwing him an apologetic look. “And I think I know why she’s here, so you should probably go.”

Jughead glances between Polly, rising off her bike, and Betty, and whatever expression was on his face before is now gone. “Okay,” he murmurs, nearly hesitating before waving and walking back towards the Andrews’ house just as Archie emerges out of it. Both boys get in the truck parked outside as Polly takes off her helmet and shakes out her hair.

As she storms up the drive, Betty can see Polly glaring over at the truck—if looks could kill, Archie in particular might’ve dropped dead on the spot. But by the time Polly reaches the garage, the truck has pulled out of its spot and is clambering away down the road.

“Hi Polly,” Betty says, trying to sound chipper, even as her sister turns the glowering onto her.

“Don’t ‘hi Polly’ me, Betty,” she snaps, crossing her arms. “So it’s true?”

Betty blinks. “So what’s true?”

“Come on,” Polly spits. “You’re just _staying here_ now? At Dad’s? You know Mom is five minutes away from an aneurism, right? She thinks you want to live here full time. I didn’t believe it, but I guess I had to see it for myself.”

“Oh my god, you sound as dramatic as Mom. I’ve been here for…like, two days. And only one night. It’s not like I moved in, Pol,” Betty replies, eyes narrowing. “And since when do you care about Mom’s feelings?”

Polly looks as though she’s been slapped, although Betty doesn’t understand why; the past couple of years have been witness to some of the worst rounds of fighting between her mother and sister, to the point where Polly threatens to run away nearly twice a month.

But Betty supposes—no one expected that from her, not the good little sister, the mediator, the peacemaker among Coopers.

 _Not_ like she’s even come close to running away, and she hardly feels Polly or, ostensibly, their mother are having an a reasonable reaction to crashing for _one_ night in an empty house in a bedroom that is technically hers anyway.

“Dad’s not even here,” Betty adds, raising her chin up. “He’s out of town. I just wanted a place with some peace and quiet, to work on the car, and not think about things. You know I’m losing my job, right? That the rink is closing?”

Polly’s expression softens, almost unconsciously. “Yeah, we heard. That sucks,” she says, although it sounds a little forced, probably due to the fact that Polly is still upset with her. But on her face, she wears genuine remorse, and it seems to filter downwards, because she drops her arms and sighs. “Look, Betty, I don’t care what Mom thinks or does, but I just came here—because I feel like you’re starting to drink the Kool-Aid. I’m worried about you.”

Betty resists the urge to rub at her temples. “There’s nothing to be worried about,” she bites out. “I’m literally just here to work on this car,” she says again, even though it sounds tighter this time.

But Polly doesn’t seem to be listening. “And those boys? What the hell was that, Betty? Your new _friend_ and the little Jason clone? Didn’t you listen to _anything_ I told you about Northsider boys?”

“He’s not like that,” Betty murmurs, her small voice steadily rising. “He’s not Jason, and I’m not you.”

Polly’s nostrils flare, and Betty realizes she might’ve gone too far, but she’s mad at her sister, and she wants her to know it. And she’s not Polly, and she never will be, she’ll be sure of that.

Betty straightens to her full height. “And you know what? The Northsiders…they’re not…they’re not _that_ bad.”

Polly gapes at her, mouth open. “Not that bad?” She hisses back. _“Not that bad?_ Betty, you remember that video, right? You remember when Jason and his little cronies spray painted _SERPENT SLUT_ on our garage door, right? Remember when Jason told everyone I’d—I’d— God, Betty, I knew you were spending more time here but they’ve full on _Stepforded_ you!”

“Stop it, Polly!” Betty shouts, suddenly not caring about raising her voice, even though they’re technically in public. “I know what Jason and his friends did was terrible, but not _everyone_ on the Northside did that! Why does it always have to be us versus them? It’s so exhausting, can’t we just—”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing right now,” Polly seethes, glaring daggers at her, in a look Betty’s only seen passed on to their mother. “Fine, _fine,_ Betty, enjoy the pastel sweaters and the country club memberships and forgetting who your real family is.”

“You know what, Polly,” Betty says quietly, her voice colder than she might recognize. “You didn’t _want_ me in the Serpents, remember? You told me not to. Honestly, I used to think it was because you were looking out for me, but now I get it—you just wanted something to yourself!”

“I _was_ looking out for you!” Polly hollers, blonde hair flying around her shoulders.

“Well, you’ve really done a great job! The Serpents keep taking everything from me—you, and now Toni—and now without the rink, there’s—there’s nothing for me there anymore!”

Polly stares at her, chest heaving, and then stalks off back towards her motorcycle, but only gets a few feet before she spins on her heel. “Nothing for you? _Nothing?_ Then you should just stay here, Betty. Stay for all I care! Enjoy your new life!”

“Fine, I will!” Betty yells down the drive.

“Fine!” Her sister screams back, practically stomping her foot, and then mounts the bike, forcibly shoving her helmet back onto her head before tearing off down the street in the opposite direction that Archie’s truck had gone in.

For a long moment, Betty just stands there, listening to the distant roar of engines, eyes flicking between those two halves of the black road until it’s completely quiet.

All the fight burns right out of her. Tears sting at her eyes.

A bit of wind pushes the hair across her face.

.

.

.

The desire to work on the Volvo gone with Polly herself, Betty closes the garage door and heads back into the house, if albeit unsure what to do with herself, but she’s definitely not going back to her Mom’s, not now, not after that.

Instead, she meanders back up to her room, and finally allows herself to check her phone, which has about half a dozen missed calls from her mother and sister, and one text from Toni, sent last night.

She opens that up, and sees it’s a scan of the photo from the fair—Betty on Fang’s back, both of them mugging happily for the camera. Betty drops the phone into her lap and feels like crying again.

Instead, she wipes at her eyes, and gets into the shower, where she does her best not to run through Polly’s words in an echo chamber, but the alternative is dwelling on what Jughead had been about to say to her, and Betty’s not sure which is scarier.

After she’s stayed under the spray as long as possible, she gets out and returns to her room to a ringing phone. It’s her mother, calling yet again, and she wonders if she’s talked to Polly yet, who surely won’t have good things to say.

But she’s still so mad at her sister—still can’t believe she keeps making everything so simple, so one-sided, that she just throws her phone onto the bed, watching as it ricochets onto a pillow. Let her mom keep calling. She’ll deal with it later.

Honestly, what she wants to do is to text Toni—or at least reply to the photo—but she’s worried Polly got to her first. In fact, she’d be surprised if she didn’t. But as much as she’d reveled in the solace yesterday and this morning, her room seems to expand before her very eyes, the corridor outside suddenly seeming so much longer. She doesn’t want to be alone, and for a moment, she’s not sure what to do with herself.

And then it occurs to her; Polly wants her to hang out on the Northside? Then fine, she will.

She picks up the phone again, and this time, Betty is the one who makes a call.

Veronica answers on the second ring.

.

.

.

Half an hour later, Betty rides her motorcycle over to Veronica’s apartment building, which is just as ornate and grand as Betty remembers it. She thinks this building used to be one of the old banks; there were even rumors about gold still in the underground vaults.

An elderly man in a dark blue uniform opens the door for her the second she appears at the top of the steps, and he smiles at her in a way that seems to say he knew she was coming. He probably did, knowing Veronica.

“Take the elevator straight up,” he says, and the ride is as Betty remembers it, although things feel quite different from that first time going up with Toni and the kid in the glasses giving them ugly looks.

As she steps off the lift, Veronica pokes her head out from the kitchen area, a platter of crudités and San Pellegrino’s on a tray. “Betty! Come, come, we’re in my room,” Veronica chirps, beckoning with a throw of her head as she breezes down another hall.

Veronica’s bedroom is pretty much what Betty would expect; a Parisian sort of decorating style, washed robin’s egg blue, and a large, comfy looking bed that Kevin Keller is currently spread out on, lying on his stomach as he flips through a gossip magazine.

“Howdy,” he greets, in a way that somehow sounds completely earnest.

“Carrot?” Veronica offers, sliding down onto a spot next to Kevin, and Betty takes one of the little sodas and a baby carrot, feeling absurdly like she’s wandered into one of the _Eloise_ books.

She doesn’t know Kevin too well, just has a loose portrait of him based on what Veronica has said and the fact that he’s the sheriff’s son, but he’s friendly to her in a way that seems obvious, of course he’s just _nice._ Betty doesn’t know why she bothers being surprised about meeting new nice people anymore.

It turns out that hanging at Veronica’s house in the fresh light of day is just as fun as the first night had ended up being. As the afternoon stretches out, Kevin and Betty help Veronica clean out a bit of her closet, the reward of which is a periwinkle blue sweater and a black skirt for Betty, both of which Veronica can’t assure her enough of. (Kevin pretends to be offended that nothing in her Goodwill pile will fit him.)

Halfway through the clean out, Veronica shares the story of her and Archie’s first kiss with little detail withheld, much to the joy of Kevin and the mild discomfort of Betty, but maybe that’s just because it’s been a while since she’s been kissed and the thought of it only puts one person in her mind.

A few hours later, the San Pellegrino’s are downed and the careful assemblage of carrots and cucumbers and dips have been consumed, Veronica is just putting a dress she’s decided to keep back in the closet when she notices the empty tray. “I am a terrible hostess,” she sighs, with mock grandeur as she sinks into the ruffled stool by her vanity. “Do we want more snacks?”

“No, but speaking of snacks,” Kevin interrupts, throwing Veronica a low look, and holding up his phone, which has Instagram opened to a photo of two shirtless and completely ripped guys that Betty dimly realizes as Jughead’s friends. Kevin blows out a puff of exasperation. “Look at what Reggie posted from this afternoon. I mean, look at them. Why are all the jacked ones so dumb? Like, can’t I have it all?”

Betty squints at the photo; it’s from Sweetwater River, and thinks, just behind Moose’s shoulder, she can see the image of a tank-wearing Jughead sitting by the river’s edge, reading. And not just any book, but the distinctly black cover of _Just Kids._

Her stomach gives a strange and completely unexplainable lurch.

“You know what I’ve noticed about small town life? You all are very dramatic about your flirtations,” Veronica says, brushing on her mascara in the mirror. She finishes, caps the tube, and turns in her seat. “I say that with complete and utter affection, of course. And I don’t know if it’s a former farm town thing, but a date can just be a date. A kiss can just be a kiss. If you like someone, you’re _not_ obligated to agree to a promise ring.”

Kevin and Betty exchange looks of faint, withering amusement, but secretly, Betty wonders if there’s something to that concept. Could a kiss just be a kiss?

 _A kiss could just be a kiss,_ she repeats to herself, testing out the thought. It doesn’t sound…wrong, per se.

“Oh, well, speaking of,” Kevin murmurs, in an exasperated but simultaneously excited kind of voice. “Just heard of a party tonight. Kegger in Fox Forest.”

Betty blinks in surprise. “What part of the forest?” She asks, because there are a section of woods practically dedicated to Southside parties, and she’d be shocked if Kevin and Veronica were just invited to one.

“Up by the lake,” Kevin replies, which makes more sense.

Veronica pouts slightly, and then gets up and returns to her closet. “Well, I can’t say I have a _lot_ of outfits suited for the great outdoors, but I’m sure I can muster something up,” she says, grinning over her shoulder. And then, with an excited little gasp, “Betty! You _have_ to wear that black skirt tonight.”

She doesn’t know why it surprises her to realize it was implied they were all going, that she was automatically invited because of course, but it’s a warm feeling, straight to her chest. Her cheeks burn a bit red at the mention of the skirt, however. “I don’t know. It’s kind of short for the woods.”

“True, but you never know _who_ might be there,” Veronica says in a clear, loud voice, possibly defying the laws of gravity with the shape her eyebrows make, leaving Betty with no doubt that nothing got past Veronica on the Fourth. Still, Betty appreciates the coyness—she can hardly admit it to herself yet. “And you’ve got legs for days, babe. Show them off.”

“Definitely,” Kevin agrees, giving Betty a firm nod of approval.

The black skirt lays draped over her purse by the door, and Betty stares at it, wondering if she should be second-guessing the thrill that runs up her spine.

In the end, she doesn’t.

.

.

.

Kevin’s car is, absurdly, an actual Smart Car, which she’s never really seen in person before and is so much smaller than she imagined, and—“I won’t hear a word against Big Bertha, okay?”—so Betty decides to take her bike rather than try to cram herself awkwardly into the car’s concept of a backseat.

After a quick and satisfying dinner at Pop’s, the three of them head out to the party, with Betty easily leading them on the road, since the peak speed of the Smart Car seems to be fifty miles an hour, but she is amused by the image their caravan must make.

_(A motorcycle and a Smart Car drive into a bar?)_

Betty guesses the party is already in full swing as they pull up to the clearing doubling as an impromptu parking lot—not because she can see anything through the trees, but because the air smells like wood smoke and music is thumping overhead, loud enough to make a bid for outrunning the cicadas.

They park and traipse over a few logs until they find the worn path leading them into the main party, which, as the sound implied it, is packed with people, most of which Betty doesn’t recognize at all, especially not in the dim light.

“Let’s find a less crowded spot,” Veronica says, looping arms with both Betty and Kevin and guiding them through the throng. But she pulls to a sudden stop as a figure dressed in an almost absurd amount of red accidentally steps into their path, narrowly missing stumbling into one another.

Cheryl Blossom opens her mouth with what will surely be a scathing remark, but as her eyes flick over all three of them and back to Betty again, she seems to snap it shut, as if thinking better of it. “Excuse me,” she says instead, her voice light. “Adorable skirt, Betty,” she adds, and then disappears off in the direction she was already heading.

Betty stares after her, feeling as though she just got slapped into an alternate dimension. Cheryl Blossom—was— _nice?_ To _her?_

It must be a trick or a trap, she decides, because there is no possible reason that Cheryl would ever pass up an opportunity to insult a Cooper girl, not with how much she obviously let Jason get away with, or at least forgave.

Veronica tugs Betty into motion, and it’s not like she can see Cheryl still, having filtered back into the crowd, but…

Whatever thought was building there, however, she’ll never know, because then Veronica spots Archie, and her steps become much more purposeful. He’s milling around a smaller bonfire with Reggie, but, with a pang, Betty realizes Jughead is nowhere to be seen.

(She’s not sure what she was expecting.)

Archie beams when he sees them approaching, and Veronica drops their arms to enter Archie’s as he gives her a sweeping, greeting kiss. One hand laid flat against his chest, Veronica looks back over her shoulder at Kevin and Betty. “We’re going to go get some drinks and survey the land a bit. Do you guys…want anything?”

Kevin’s eyebrows threaten to completely disappear into his hairline. “Gee, no thanks,” he says drolly, glancing at Betty. She stifles a giggle.

As soon as they’re gone, left alone with just Reggie, he lets out a burdened kind of sigh and then loops his arm around Kevin’s shoulders. “So. Keller, Keller, my favorite feller.”

“Oh,” Kevin sighs, exchanging an unimpressed kind of look with Betty. “Hello, Reggie. What do you want?”

Reggie flashes him a toothy grin. “Who says I want anything? No, you know, earlier I was just hanging out by the keg and thinking to myself—man, I don’t talk to my down low main man Kevin Keller enough.”

“Yeah… Years of observation into this topic means I’m going to go out on a limb and say that’s not what you were thinking. And that’s _really_ not what down low means,” Kevin deadpans, exhaling noisily. Reggie blinks at him, squinting just slightly, and then seems to drop the charade at once.

“Alright, fair enough,” Reggie concedes genially, as Kevin wrestles his shoulders free from Reggie’s grip. “Truth be told, I’m wondering where your lovely sister is.”

“Step-sister,” Kevin corrects. “And as of only two years, so if you’re banking on our familial love to get you in her door, you’ll have to wait in line. She’s still eating my cereal on purpose.”

Privately, Betty thinks that’s more of a mark of an average sibling-to-sibling relationship than Kevin may realize, but she’s not going to cause more trouble by inserting herself into this conversation.

“Hey, bro, I get it,” Reggie says, shrugging. “But I bet if _you_ invited her here—”

“She’s playing a show in Centerville, Reggie, she’s not coming all the way here to Fox Forest just so you can drape yourself over her,” Kevin says, tipping his chin up slightly. But then, and as if wondering if he ought to think better of it, he adds, “Just FYI, if you want an actual shot with her, you _have_ to drop the womanizer thing. Josie won’t date anyone she thinks she has to share. That’s my advice, though I don’t know why I’m giving it to you.”

But Reggie is actually listening, moonlight in his eyes as he nods. He ruffles the top of his hair in a thoughtful sort of way, nods, and then turns on his heel, wandering back towards the bigger bonfire.

And—this might be her only chance to ask someone who knows, so before she can dwell on the decision, she signals to Kevin she’ll be right back, and trots after Reggie. He throws her a very surprised look when he turns back and realizes it’s her calling his name, but he does slow to a stop.

She smoothes out the wrinkles in her shirt. “Um, I was just wondering—is Jughead here? I’d ask Archie, but I don’t really want to go looking for him…or Veronica right now, so…”

Reggie’s expression changes at once, a quicksilver kind of smile, eyes glittering. “I thought there was something going on with you two,” he says, standing a little taller as he crosses his arms in a surveying kind of way. “You’ve chosen well. I mean, _I_ would be the true prize, but—Jughead’s a good guy.”

Betty almost says _I know,_ but that might be playing her cards too close to her chest, so instead she just fidgets on the spot and waits for Reggie to answer her question.

“He’s not here though,” he says, a beat later, still looking smug. “I invited him, but Juggalo doesn’t show his face at any party unless he’s practically being coerced. I bet if _you_ texted him, though…he’d come running faster than you could say whipped.”

She tries not to flush at that, particularly because the comment kind of rubs her the wrong way, especially with the little whipping motion he throws in at the end. But then she runs her tongue along her teeth, and she makes up her mind, raising her chin up defiantly. “Give me his number, then.”

He smiles in a wolfish way, one that bares his teeth, though it doesn’t look menacing—it in retrospect, this has almost seemed like a test, strange as it was. He digs his phone out of his pocket, and just before he presents it to her, he jerks it back, a question on his face. “You’re not going to go breaking his heart, right, Mini Coop? I don’t want his blood on my hands.”

In all of her knowledge of Northside boys, Betty thinks it’s pretty unlikely she’s the one in danger of having her feelings stomped over, and in spite of that, she shakes her head. Reggie offers her the phone, pulled up with Jughead’s contact—although he’s stored under Dottie, which she suspects must be a _League of Their Own_ reference, one she wouldn’t have expected from Reggie. After plugging the number into her own phone, she hands Reggie back his, trying to ignore the look he gives her.

She thanks him, and he nods, turning and walking towards the crowd once more. She stares down at the contact, and then pulls up it up into a message, inhaling deeply before she types it out.

_**come to fox forest!** _

Betty watches the little ellipsis appear for a few seconds, and wonders with a pang at her chest if that sounded way too eager, or completely silly, but then his response arrives.

_Whoever this is, you’re being very overt about wanting to murder me in the woods._

_Seriously, who is this?_

Relieved, she grins to herself and taps out **_guess :)_**

Once again, the ellipsis appears, only this time it disappears twice before her phone buzzes back.

_Betty?_

**_reggie gave me your number. how is it i’m at another party with all your friends that you’re not at_ **

_Haha. I’ll come. Be there in 30_

She moves to bite her lip and as her teeth make contact, she realizes she’s still grinning. Attempting to smother it down, she shoves the phone into the back pocket of her skirt as she turns to rejoin Kevin by the bonfire. He throws her a similar look to the one Reggie gave her, and Betty distinctly realizes he was eavesdropping. She wonders how much Veronica told Kevin, or how much he could figure out for himself.

“What’s new,” he asks in a drawling voice.

“Nothing,” she replies, mustering the most innocent voice she can, even as she fiddles with her ponytail.

“Swell,” he says meaningfully, and sips at his drink, raising his eyebrows over the lip of the cup, and when he lowers it, Kevin is still looking expectantly at her. “Hey—I wanted to ask. You’re friends with that guy Fangs, right?”

“He is gay, if that’s what you’re asking,” Betty says, grinning at him. It’s been a while since she’s heard him referred by his nickname rather than last name; if he gave it to Kevin, he must like him. She’s not sure where exactly they would’ve met, but then again, there are apps she knows he likes to use.

“No, trust me, I know _that,”_ Kevin snorts. He glances over his shoulder then, as if to see if they’re alone. “I was just wondering if you knew what he was, you know, looking for.”

“He hasn’t really mentioned relationships in a while,” Betty sighs, though it’s been a while since they hung out one on one and she’s always suspected that, no matter how often Toni jokes about it, he has actually had a crush on Sweet Pea that he’s been trying to let go of. “I don’t know.”

A thoughtful noise sounds in the back of his throat. Kevin eyes her once more, and then seems to decide to trust her. “I can’t believe I’m saying this of all people, but I kind of think _I’m_ in the middle of a love triangle. But I don’t want to _just_ hookup, which is all I’m getting from… Well, you know what I mean?”

Betty bites her lip— _that’s the question, isn’t it,_ she thinks. It could be that simple, right? She can admit she wants to hang out with him. _If_ something happens, a simple hookup, it can stay a one-time thing. _That’s_ okay, isn’t it? No hurt feelings, no distractions for when the school year begins—

“Earth to Betty,” Kevin interrupts, waving a hand in front of her face, and she realizes she’s been spacing out in thought. “Or did you not hear anything I just said?”

“You don’t want to only hook up,” she repeats, and based on the look on his face, this was clearly only half right, but he smiles all the same.

“You seem very distracted tonight, Betty Cooper,” Kevin says in what she’s realizing is his faux-serious, knowing way. She wonders if Veronica might’ve gossiped. “I take it someone special is on his way?”

She rolls her eyes, but she can feel herself grinning again.

.

.

.

About thirty minutes later, Kevin has wandered off to talk to Moose in the larger crowd, and Veronica still hasn’t returned from her quote-un-quote survey of the land with Archie, so Betty settles herself into one of the beach chairs and preoccupies herself with people watching. She tries not to think about Cheryl’s words, especially because they continue to make no sense, even as Betty further ruminates on them.

She spots a flash of long red hair in the mingling crowd by the bigger bonfire, and then, parting through it is Jughead, who seems to see her at the same time she spots him.

He gives a kind of half-wave, backlight by the fire, and then crosses the dirt to settle into the beach chair next to her. “Sorry, that took a while. You were kind of hard to find,” he says, grinning at her. And then his eyes drop to her legs, golden with glow from the fire, and Betty silently thanks Veronica again for pushing the skirt on her. “But thanks for inviting me, this is a cool party.”

“Don’t credit me, I just heard about it from Kevin,” she says, because she realizes she has no idea what to say to him now that he’s here. “How are you?”

The grin he flashes her is devilish. “Well, a lot’s changed in the eighteen hours I haven’t seen you,” he says lowly, throwing her own words back in her face.

She laughs, and reaches forward to smack him on the arm lightly. “Shut up.”

But he’s still grinning at her, eyes flickering soft against the little blaze beyond them. Her heart gives a flutter, kick, and spark in her chest, like the bonfire sits under her skin.

For a long moment, they just look at one another. “Um, so, do you want a drink?” Jughead asks, licking his lips.

“I’m here on my bike, which I can’t leave here, so I’m not drinking,” she replies, shaking her head, watching as another imperceptible look passes over his face.

“I drove here too, so same,” he says. “We could go get waters?”

She smirks, getting to her feet. “We can do a little better than that. I think I saw some sodas in a cooler by the big fire.”

“Copy,” he says, joining her and standing up. Together, they walk shoulder to shoulder towards the main crowd, neither of them saying anything. On Betty’s end, all she can think about is the body heat radiating off of him, and it busies her mind the whole walk over.

Just as one of the red coolers is within sight, just by Moose and Kevin deep in conversation, Betty hears a sound that makes her stop dead in her tracks. It’s a laugh, one that’s far too familiar to be coincidence—she spins around, her eyes widen, and she nearly trips.

Toni is sitting on the hood of a parked car on the opposite edge of the fire, her pink hair all aglow, one knee tucked under her chin—smiling widely down at Cheryl Blossom.

Betty gapes, and then realizes, if she can see Toni, Toni can probably see her, and now is probably not the time to get answers as to why she’s not the only Southsider at a Northsider party, but heavy in what looks like flirtation with a Blossom. If this was Toni’s idea of revenge for Polly…

Instead of dwelling on the thought, Betty picks up her pace and hurries towards the cooler, where she quickly selects the first soda she can wrap her hands around. Jughead picks one of the same kind, giving her a somewhat funny look.

She runs her tongue along her bottom lip, a motion she realizes he watches. “Hey, I left something by my bike, can we head over to where the cars are parked?”

“Sure,” he agrees, in a slow voice she can’t really interpret. He cracks open his soda tab and follows her out of the throng of people and music, a distant, base-heavy beat blasting out of some portable speaker, the air thick with bonfire smoke and floating chatter. Together, they weave towards the back, into the clearing that’s become an impromptu parking lot.

Recognizing Jughead’s mint green pickup, she leans up against it, setting her soda down into the bed. He does the same, the thrumming of the music now mingling with the distant crickets and cicadas, who seem to have been singing louder each day.

“So… You didn’t tell me how your training went,” she says, for lack of the ability to say what she’s actually thinking. She wishes she knew him better; wishes there were old stories to fall back on, rather than grasping around nerves.

He presses his side into the metal of the truck and then blows out a noisy breath, though he does look surprised she’d care to ask. “It was alright. Rigorous,” he adds, scratching at his neck. “There was a lot more running involved than any of my past practices, but I guess these are supposed to be mimicking the bigger leagues, so it makes sense they’d be harder than what we’re used to.”

Jughead’s voice sounds oddly far away. He shrugs. “I don’t know. It was—I don’t know.”

That wasn’t the answer she’d expected, and perhaps not the one he’d expected to give either, because his eyes dart down, and he seems unwilling to say anything else. He meets her eye, and the squirrely look on his face is gone. “How about you? Are you feeling…you know, better, about the rink?”

It’s her turn to sigh loudly, shaking her head. “Not really. Yesterday all I could think about was marching over to my boss’s house and demanding we fight to save it, but I’ve been kind of distracted today. And I don’t even know how we’d start, trying to save a whole business, or if it’s even worth it.”

“If you care about it, then it’s worth it,” Jughead says, nudging her slightly with his arm.

Betty traces her eyes across his face, and thinks that’s a bit naïve, but the sentiment is nice all the same. “Maybe,” she says, lacing and unlacing her fingers in front of her. “I’ve also been expecting it to happen for a while. I don’t know. Maybe that means something too.”

Jughead moves to lean one elbow onto the ridge of the truck, his body facing hers. “That’s kind of a slippery slope though, isn’t it?”

She sips at her soda, and then puts it down into the truck bed. “How so?”

“Trusting too much in expectation,” he explains, brow furrowed slightly. She wonders if he’s talking about—well, them, somehow, but then he continues, “I just mean, my dad, for example. He expects a lot of me. I think a lot of the town does, sometimes. For me to…be like him.”

He pauses, as if hearing his own words reflected back. “He was a big baseball player too, when he was my age. Everyone expected a lot of him too. And that…didn’t help, in the end.”

The weight of the confession sits between them like a third person, and Jughead seems to flush a little, as if realizing how honest he just was. But Betty just smiles, feeling inexplicably touched that he was.

Seemingly emboldened by that, he adds, “Sometimes it pisses me off, that people’s expectations of us can have such an effect. And then sometimes I play right into it, like I want to be what they expect. In the end, I think I’m exactly what everyone expects me to be,” he says, a slightly bitter tinge to it.

“That’s not true,” she says quietly. She meets his gaze, and adds, “You’re not…what I expected at all.”

He stares back at her, lips parted, expression completely imperceptible, a look in his eye that she wouldn’t know how to name. Betty feels like every cell in her body is alive. She can feel the hair on her neck standing up, the pump in her chest, the bubble in her throat.

And before any voice in her head can tell her to stop or think about what she’s about to do, she leans forward, and presses her mouth against his.

Jughead falters for only a moment before he’s kissing her back, his hands coming up around to frame her jaw upwards, and she opens her lips to the kiss, throwing her arms around his neck. The edge of the truck bed presses into her back, but she doesn’t care, feeling nothing of it, her body humming, every part of her on fire.

 _A kiss can just be a kiss,_ she tells herself.

His hands hover around her, running through her hair, leaving it, rubbing along her jaw, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, like he’d want to run his hands deeper down, and then before she realizes what’s happening, he’s hoisting her up and depositing her onto the truck and stepping between her legs, her skirt practically pushed all the way up her thighs, all the while still kissing her.

She runs her fingers through his dark locks, tugging just enough on them to have him breathing heavily against her mouth, a curse on his lips.

And—Betty hasn’t kissed a lot of boys, so maybe she just didn’t know what it can be like. But this is—this is not what she would’ve expected.

 _Fuck_ is still not a word that comes easily to Betty.

Growing up with strict mother who allowed swear words for herself and not her children, Betty’s unwillingness to loudly curse earned her a lot of teasing from her friends growing up. But as Jughead slips his tongue inside her mouth and presses the length of his body against her own, _fuck_ is the only word that comes to mind.

Fuck as his lips drop onto the spot between neck and collarbone that makes her shiver. Fuck as she throws her head back to give him better access.

And then it keeps coming in tune with her heartbeat. _Fuck—it. Fuck—it. Fuck—it._

Fuck her parents for making it feel like any decision she could make would be a choice between them. Fuck her sister for doing the exact same thing, but making it so much worse. How could Polly ever say Jughead was like Jason, for implying Betty was repeating Polly’s mistakes—

And then—

 _“Fuck,”_ she whispers aloud, eyes snapping back open, her whole body jerking upright and her hands pushing back against his chest until he stops.

Breathing heavily, he stares into her eyes, his pupils blown wide. “What? What is it?”

Betty stares back, the dread she couldn’t sleep with settling back in along her toes. This is— This is the opposite of what she should be doing. No matter what Veronica said, the idea that she could just _hook up with him_ and be done with it tonight suddenly seems laughable, and anything short of that is—just—just not an option.

 _This is how it starts,_ she thinks, with a pang. This is how it must’ve started for her mother, for her sister. Shakespeare called it a kiss before dying, she calls it a kiss without thinking.

But it suddenly feels like the next thing Betty knows, she’ll be repeating every other mistake and stuck in Riverdale for the rest of her life, regretting the day she didn’t spot the pattern before it spun out of her control.

Her heart begins to stutter with familiar anxiety as Jughead asks once more, “What is it?”

“This was a bad idea,” she breathes, even as her fingers curl into his shirt. She shakes her head and tries not to look at his falling face. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

As gently as she can, she pushes a struck-dumb Jughead back a few steps. _I’m not going to be my sister,_ she thinks as she jumps down from the truck, heart still hammering.

He’s still staring at her, and she wishes she couldn’t see her handiwork in how disheveled he looks. “Betty, wait, can’t we talk about what—”

“No, no,” she murmurs, hands smoothing down her ponytail, a burning at her eyes like smoke inhalation. _I’m not going to be my sister, I’m not going to be my mother._ “Please, Jughead, I’m sorry. I need to go.”

His mouth opens and closes. “Wait, Betty—”

But she’s starting to find it hard to breathe, and she backs up, moving further away from him.

And then she practically sprints all the way to her motorcycle, parked only a few feet away. Running away isn’t the most mature thing she could do, but having a panic attack in front of Jughead isn’t an option either, so the motorcycle it is.

Betty shoves her helmet on and the keys into the ignition, spinning in a half circle and spitting up woodchips and dirt in her haste to break out of the clearing.

She feels like such a foolish child, playing with matches and thinking a fire wouldn’t burn.

Her eyes still stinging, she tears into the dark night, leaving behind the distant _thrum_ of music, and the backlight outline of a boy in the side view mirror.

.

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.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i warned you guys about the snowball!!!!!!
> 
> listening playlist: [diving woman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WkaZ223rjAI) by japanese breakfast, [edge of seventeen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dn8-4tjPxD8) by stevie nicks (which, honestly, is largely what this fic is about and rears its head here), [take my breath away](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bx51eegLTY8) by berlin, and [shut up kiss me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GTcwbsUs6vE) by angel olsen. 
> 
> so...happy valentine's day? it wasn't my intention for this to line up with today, but...it was important to me that this chapter emphasize the push-pull betty's going through. she wants what she wants, but she's afraid of what that means. hopefully you guys understand where she's coming from. 
> 
> and there's a long way to go with them. :) aka, don't kill me, this may not go the way you're worried it will! and yes, i know the ending was dramatic, but so are teenagers!
> 
> if you don't want to murder me and/or hate me, or hey even if you do, please drop me a comment and tell me what you thought. i really pushed myself hard to get this chapter out for you guys earlier than expected and i would love some reviews!


	10. Chapter 10

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump—_

Jughead catches the tennis ball again as it ricochets back to him, and has a desire to press the felt of it deep into the center of his forehead, but instead pitches it against the wall once more. The little trophies rattle slightly with the force of the throw, but he keeps going.

A moment later, his bedroom door creaks open, JB’s long, dark hair slipping around the crack in the frame, quickly followed by the face of his sister. She peeks through the room, and seems to visibly deflate when she sees him on the floor, legs splayed out in front of him, facing the wall he’s been tossing the tennis ball at, which he does again, keeping time with his pace.

_Thump._

“Christ and Buddha, Jughead,” she breathes, collapsing against the side of the door. “I kept hearing that dumb noise and thought the raccoons in the attic had finally gone rabid, or something.” She stands up straighter, eyes narrowing. “Weren’t you going to the batting cages?”

He throws the ball again. _Thump._

“Went, came back. Couldn’t focus,” he answers bitterly, staring straight ahead. Long gone was his ability to lose himself in baseball, apparently, and it’s still bothering him. _Thump._

“Okay…is that why you’re sitting on the floor, pouting?”

“I’m really not in the mood for your smart assery, JB,” he snaps, and this time, when he catches the ball, he doesn’t immediately hurl it off again. “Seriously.”

But that seems to strengthen her determination, because she lets out a breath too, and closes the door. Then she crosses the room and sinks onto the floor next to him, throwing him an expectant kind of look. _“Seriously,”_ she echoes, her mocking tone somehow kind of comforting, “why are you moping around on the floor, Jughead?”

He tries to bounce the tennis ball on the carpet between his legs, but the soft layer muffles the momentum and it stills pitifully. “I don’t want to talk about it. There’s no point. You can’t help me with this, anyway.”

Her expression hardens, but it’s flecked with wry amusement. “I forgot how melodramatic you are,” she says, lips pressed against a grin. “Come on. Try me, at least.”

Jughead runs a hand through his hair, casting a glance at his sister. He’d never considered asking for her opinion, but then again, he keeps remembering she’s not nine years old anymore. But that doesn’t mean he really wants to talk about Betty with her.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles slowly. But something about the look on her face softens his resolve, and he finds himself saying, “Well—don’t laugh.”

“I won’t,” she swears seriously, even repositioning herself so that her ankles are tucked underneath her knees in an attentive pose.

“It’s about a girl,” he blurts, and instantly cringes, hearing how lame it sounds to his ears. His head falls back against the wall he’s been sitting up against and distinctly doesn’t look at his sister. “Remember…that blonde girl from the diner?”

JB doesn’t look surprised at all, and she doesn’t laugh, but she does grin a little wider. “Yeah. You practically fell out of the booth ogling after her.”

“I did not ogle,” he replies, though he’s not sure why it comes out so defensively. “Never mind, forget it.”

“Come on,” JB murmurs stubbornly, whacking him on the arm. “Lighten up, and tell me happened. I mean, spare me any details you don’t think I need, please, but…”

He exhales loudly through his nose. “We kissed. She—kissed me, and it was good, like, really good—” JB’s expression sours, so he hurries to the point. “But then…she kind of…ran away. Rode away on a motorcycle, technically.”

“She has a motorcycle?” JB asks, a little excitedly, but quickly drops the tone when she sees his face. “Sorry, not the point. Okay, well…I mean…we’re not having a conversation about…consent, right?”

“Jesus Christ, no,” he says at once, but then, with a swell against his chest, hadn’t considered that before. “Or, I don’t think so, but—”

“Relax, Jug,” JB interrupts, her hands held up. “I just had to ask. I have a _Rookie_ magazine subscription and…you can’t get unwoke, you know? But I’m sure that wasn’t it,” she adds firmly.

He lets out another breath. “I just—don’t know what she wants from me. She kissed me, and I can’t explain… But she’s always…” But he trails off, not sure how to finish that sentence, even. _She’s always been a mystery,_ he thinks dimly.

“I take it you like her, though?” JB asks, in a much gentler voice.

Jughead meets her eye, but briefly. An image of Betty, firelight glowing against her skin, swirls through his thoughts. The nerve he’d almost summoned that morning in front of her garage, half unsure what he was going to ask except for her number. The thrill that’d shot through his system last night when he’d realized who was texting him, _who’d wanted to see him._

“Yeah,” he says quietly. And then, “But I barely know her, and maybe the kiss was a mistake anyway.”

JB frowns. “Why?”

“Because I don’t have time for this,” he says, choking a bit around the words and gesticulating widely with his hands. “I have practice, and training, and practice again, and games on top of that. I couldn’t sleep last night, I couldn’t focus at the batting cages—this—it—”

“Jughead,” she butts in, tilting her head at him. Her voice drops an octave. “Your life doesn’t have to be just baseball, you know?”

He doesn’t know why, but he glares at hearing that, squaring his frustration cleanly onto the bookcase with the trophies on it. “I don’t have anything else,” he says quietly. “And at this point, it’s not something you just quit.”

“No one said anything about quitting. I don’t know why you jumped to that,” she sighs, looking down at her lap. “I just meant that it’s okay to want to…have other interests, I guess. You shouldn’t feel bad about real life popping your baseball bubble for once.”

He digs his teeth into his bottom lip. She’s right—he jumped to quitting. The crease between his eyebrows deepens.

“Maybe,” he says finally. “But like I said, I don’t know what she wants. And I don’t even know what I want either, really, so…this whole conversation, let alone any kiss, is kind of moot.”

“Hey, I have an idea,” she says after a long stretch of silence, nudging him on the arm again. “You should write down what you’re feeling. My creative writing teacher said reading our own thoughts reflected back at us is the best way to understand them. Like, stream of consciousness.”

Truthfully, it doesn’t sound like the worst plan, but something about it makes him feel a little vulnerable, which turns into discomfort. JB seems to notice something on his face, because she adds, “ _I_ don’t have to read it, dumbass. Just you. Look, it’s a nice Sunday, and we don’t have to be at the Blossoms for that stupid dinner for hours. Why don’t we go to that cool new bookstore café in Greendale, and I can go look at the graphic novels while you try it out?”

He considers this. Moose is still seemingly running some kind of stealth operation, Reggie works Sunday afternoons at his dad’s dealership, and Archie, the main person he would consider talking to about this anyway, is certainly tangled up with something pearly at the moment.

Plus, any advice Archie would have would be far more direct than Jughead is really in the mood to hear. And JB’s plan beats the backup he’d had, which is pitifully staring at his phone while pretending he wasn’t.

“I guess I don’t have anything else to do,” he mutters, getting to his feet.

JB grins and takes his offered hand to help her up too. “That’s good, Jug. Words every girl wants to hear. Start there.”

.

.

.

They take the country road to Greendale, deciding it might be nice to take the scenic route. JB’s head lolls out the window in a dog-like way, but the one time he glances over, her eyes are shut, and she looks incredibly at peace.

Ever since he got his driver’s license, he’s spent a decent amount of his time ferrying his little sister around, and it suddenly occurs to him that next year, when he’s off wherever at college, JB will be only fourteen, and without him to chauffer her around. Sure, Riverdale is walkable and especially bikeable, but— It wouldn’t be this. Wouldn’t be—

He glances back at the road. It’s not time for those thoughts yet, he tells himself.

The bookstore café is just a bit further down from the Greendale high school, and its parking lot is fairly bustling as they pull up to it, a hanging wooden sign that reads _The Witches’ Brew Café_ swinging in the summer breeze. A bell greets them as they pass through the doorway, and Jughead instantly understands why JB wanted to come here.

There is a café bar visible in the back, and it is lined with books, records, and assorted comics, but it’s also filled with crystals and all sorts of tinkling glass objects, and for a purportedly brand new shop, it somehow appears a century old at the same time; the effect of which is right up his sister’s alley. As if reading his mind, JB grins at him as he adjusts his messenger bag on his shoulder.

They agree he’ll get a table while she peruses the shelves, and then they separate, with Jughead heading for the back and JB veering left towards the records. He orders an iced black coffee from a bored looking girl with platinum hair and dark lipstick, and then settles at a spot by a window. Once again, he has the desire to check his phone and reread his last texts with Betty, but mercifully, fights it down.

Instead, Jughead takes his time unpacking his laptop from his messenger bag, but by the time he’s adjusted its distance from his arms a few times and moved his drink left to right twice over, he admits to himself he’s being ridiculous.

He’s written essays before. He’s written _creative_ essays before; gotten good grades on them too. Enjoyed doing it, even. _Stream of consciousness,_ he hears JB say, but as he squints at the word document blinking back at him, he can’t make the words come.

He takes a breath, glances around to see if anyone is watching—though he instantly feels silly, as he doesn’t know why anyone would be—and then before he can think further on it, types out, _Rising tides lift all boats, but I’m supposed to be both the water and the ship. How is that fair?_

He barely even knows what he means by that, but it makes sense to him as he reads it back. The space cursor appears and disappears from the document, and then his fingers are moving again. _And if I’m the ship, I’m certainly unmoored, floating out into the sun. If I’m the water, I don’t know where the river flows._

And, again, less abstractly, he writes: _I guess I don’t know what I’m doing. Because I don’t know what I want. What if it’s not baseball?_

He hits the spacebar a few times.

_I don’t know what I want._

The words seem to flash there on the page, and he realizes it suddenly feels about more than just Betty. But it is about her—but it isn’t, it’s baseball, it’s his father—but, no, it _is_ her too, because these weren’t questions he allowed himself to ask until he met her; who made him question his reflection in someone else’s eyes. He didn’t start wondering about people’s expectations of him until Betty, not really.

And that’s made him feel nothing but lost.

Which is the rub of it, the thing that tortured him at the batting cages, the thought that bounced against his walls the rest of the morning, the jiggle in his leg, the stress behind his chest—she makes him feel a lot of things, certainly, but some of those things include confusion.

But he has a rush of memory of last night, her lips on his, hands tugging at his hair, the press of her knee into his hip as he’d moved closer between her legs and he knows _that_ does not confuse him.

 _That_ is pretty clear.

But that also left him with nothing but questions, particularly in the part where she immediately ran away from him afterwards. Perhaps that was for the best, he’d thought at that point, a little bitterly, leaning up against his truck and finally feeling the air reenter his lungs.

Because it’s the _after that_ he doesn’t know what to do with.

There’s another voice that tells him it doesn’t have to be complicated. It’s the same voice that has been muttering that since he first met her and she made it very clear she wanted nothing to do with Northside jocks of any ilk. The voice that thinks of forests and trees and seeing them for what they are, and not seeing why two people who are obviously attracted to each other can’t be just that.

He’s seen it be that simple for most people in his life—you like someone, you date someone. Maybe you love someone, if you get lucky. But _he’s_ someone too, and what could someone like him offer to her, if he’s feeling nothing but confusion and dread about the rest of his life?

That’s the other voice, the pragmatist or the cynic, probably depending on whom he asked.

The voice reminding him he has had people run away from him before. After all, how many times is he going to set himself up to be let down? Hasn’t he gotten the hint yet? The problem is likely in him, something undesirable.

It’s a bit Oedipal, even for his tastes, but a cough like a car engine sits in his throat, much like the one that tore down the long driveway and into a longer night, carrying his mother away from him.

Jughead pushes his palms flat against his face, trying to clear the thought.

 _Don’t go there._ A bell tinkles again, the one by the door. He tries to focus on the real world continuing to exist around him. He clears his hands from his face and opens his eyes, aimlessly turning them towards the window.

Rationally, he knows he can’t just jump to abandonment issues every time. He also thinks he knows Betty well enough to have gleaned she’s got her own set of histories to deal with, and wasn’t trying to hurt him. She’d seemed so panicked, and he’d hated seeing that look on her face.

 _Still,_ he thinks. Doesn’t mean it didn’t also sting.

He clamshells his laptop, deciding this is more than enough self reflection for one afternoon and that he better find his sister and get going. They have that monthly dinner with the Blossoms tonight, events of which generally require a lot of emotional preparation on his behalf, even on a good day. So tonight should be fun, he decides, a bit grimly.

Jughead gets to his feet, turns around, and immediately stops, his eyes widening upon the person opposite him.

Moose stares right back at him, mug of freshly steaming coffee frozen in his hands. It slops forward onto the floor as someone bumps into the back of Moose, and Jughead vaguely recognizes that person as Kevin Keller, who also seems quite surprised to spot a familiar face.

“Um,” Moose says, looking strangely stricken.

Kevin’s attention flickers between Jughead and Moose with a look that is both awkward and a bit enlivened, and promptly says, “I’m gonna go… Sit,” and disappears in the opposite direction. Jughead throws a funny look after him, and then glances back at Moose, eyebrows raised.

“What’s up?” He asks slowly, because something about that entire interaction felt inexplicably off. “What’re you doing all the way in Greendale?”

“Uh, could ask you the same thing,” Moose stammers, still appearing pale.

Jughead frowns. “My sister wanted to check out this place. I drove her here.” He flashes Moose a smile, though he can’t help but narrow his eyes, because Moose is definitely behaving peculiarly now. “But I asked you first.”

Moose looks somewhat torn, but then says, “I’m kind of…here with someone.” With an excited kind of smile he can’t seem to suppress, Moose glances back over his shoulder, in the direction of Kevin, who immediately picks up his phone and stares at it in order to pretend he wasn’t watching them.

A thin line forms over Jughead’s eyebrows, confused why that would denote such strange behavior. And then—it clicks. He’s here with someone. He’s here with _Kevin Keller._

“Oh,” Jughead says, blinking.

“I kinda thought you already knew,” Moose replies, even softer. At Jughead’s look, he adds, still bashfully, “After state finals, up in Albany. There was…someone there. I thought you’d…”

“So that’s why you’ve been avoiding me?” Jughead blurts, even though he knows it’s an inappropriate time to talk about his hurt feelings. But it does explain why Moose has been so cagey all summer, particularly with him, his own teammate.

Moose looks deeply remorseful. “I guess, yeah. I wasn’t ready to talk about it, and I’d thought you’d, you know, figured it out. But please, dude, don’t say anything to the guys,” Moose adds quickly, once he realizes Jughead has cottoned on to the full picture. “Look, I haven’t told— Keller is just helping me sort through some stuff first. You know. Like, _stuff.”_

“Oh,” Jughead says again. And then, realizing how that might sound, hurries to add, “Of course I won’t say anything to anyone, but—” He pauses, trying to find the right words. “You know that…none of us would care, right? We’re all here for you, no matter what.”

The smallest of smiles appears on Moose’s face, a bit of color returning, though he still looks wan. “I didn’t think you would. Or Archie. I just—Reggie’s mom is kinda religious, and sometimes he says stuff...”

Jughead shifts, foot to foot. Vaguely, he could agree that Moose might have a point, though Reggie has definitely evolved past the problematic eighth grade use of the word _gay_ in lieu of _lame_. “But Reggie is your best friend,” he says, shaking his head. “This wouldn’t change that.”

Moose allows a hopeful kind of look, though still seems hesitant all the same. “Maybe, yeah. I hope. I’m still just not ready to tell people.”

“And I promise, I would never do anything to take that moment away from you,” Jughead says lowly, his voice taking on a more serious note, which Moose seems to appreciate, visibly relaxing. “Let me know if I can help, in any way. Okay?”

“Yeah,” he replies, blowing out a breath. He smiles. “Thanks, man.”

There’s a beat between them, and Jughead lifts his messenger bag off the chair, and adjusts it onto his shoulder. “Well… I was just heading out anyway. But—text me if you need anything.”

He nods. “And sorry for being such a flake about training. I’ll hit you up this week and we can go to the diamond? Maybe a pick up game, with the rest of the guys?”

Although there’s a part of Jughead that is still reeling from the load that was his first week with the Nationals league and could live if he never threw another pitch, a light game with his friends still sounds nice, and he does want to make sure Moose doesn’t think there’s anything that would change about their friendship. So he agrees, says goodbye, and leaves, passing a small smile to Kevin as he heads out of the café area.

He finds his sister sitting on the floor in the graphic novel section, flipping through some comic about witches. She looks surprised when she glances up. “You’re done already?”

“Yup,” he says, which isn’t technically untrue. “Come on, let’s head back.”

JB pouts. “We like, just got here.” 

Almost unconsciously, Jughead glances back over his shoulder, towards the café section of the store. Moose and Kevin deserve the privacy more. “Yeah, but we’ve got that dinner thing later to get ready for. And we need to stop at the library, I still have that book of yours to return.”

She scrunches up her nose, but dutifully gets to her feet, tucking the comic under her arm, as well as the few scattered around her. “You said you returned it last week.”

He shrugs. “Well, turns out I wanted to read it for myself.”

At that, her expression shifts, melting into something smug. “That girl recommended it, didn’t she? I was having a hard time picturing Reggie reading up on Patti Smith.”

He rolls his eyes, even though it’s true, and decides not to answer that. But her just grin grows; she shakes her head, pats his jaw patronizingly, and strides off towards the cashier.

Jughead sighs, scratches at his neck, and then follows after her.

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After they’ve taken care of the library errand and made it back home, JB takes one look at their father sitting on the couch, watching television and nursing something out of a glass bottle, and immediately disappears up the stairs towards her bedroom.

FP frowns deeply, glancing at Jughead for an answer, but he doesn’t really have one; the pitiful look on FP’s face nearly brings out the desire to comfort him, assure him otherwise, but truthfully, he’s been feeling on pins around his father lately too.

Whatever good mood his father had been in when he had dropped Jughead off at training was gone by the time he got back. Of course, he’d known it would be the moment he saw that the Andrews had been sent in his place to pick Jughead up, but it doesn’t make the abrupt transition all the more frustrating.

Which it’s always been, but the longer these swings go on, the less patience Jughead finds himself having for them, even if he thinks he knows the cause of his particular downward mood.

 _You’re going farther than I ever did,_ he’d said, the memory of his barely-falling face burned into Jughead’s memory.

Thinking on it now, looking at his despondent father from across the living room, it nearly makes him furious, in a way that it never has before. But it’s like he’s been seeded with something ever since he got back from New Jersey, and he finds he can’t let the thought go. How in the hell is he supposed to both meet his father’s expectations to exceed his own achievements _and_ comfort him about it at the same time?

There’s a small noise in the back of his father’s throat. “Guess she’s still mad at me, huh,” he says, more a statement than a question. Almost as if forcing the decision that it doesn’t bother him, he scoffs, and takes a pull of the drink he’d been resting on his knee. “All because I didn’t take her on a tour of the glass factory?”

Heat abruptly rises into Jughead’s chest, and he attempts a steadying breath, but it doesn’t work. Without thinking, frustration blinding his impulse control, he snaps, “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

FP blinks, abruptly taken aback, and Jughead gives the beer a nasty, pointed look. The expression on his father’s face twists into something he can’t quite interpret—defensive, maybe, but singed with shame.

But this is the closest he’s come to calling his father’s behavior what it is, and there are years and years in that single look, and that suddenly feels too daunting for Jughead to broach now.

Not to mention, approximately an hour before they have to leave for the Blossoms is probably not the time to start that conversation anyway. Or that’s what he tells himself, deciding to leave the moment at that and turning on his heel.

He stalks up the stairs towards his room, the ghosts in the wood creaking under his weight.

Halfway up, something clinks against the glass bottle, and Jughead decides not to wonder what it was.

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.

About an hour later, the three remaining Joneses gather in the foyer.

They’ve been going to the Blossoms once a month for dinner as long as Jughead can remember, and he’s long given up trying to squirrel his way out of them. JB has apparently learned to accept her fate as well, having stopped pretending to have come down with a mysterious and desperately serious illness each time, and now tugs at the hem of her dress uncomfortably.

He understands why; lest they face the onslaught of scornful comments from the Blossom matriarch, the dress code for the dinners is always semi-formal. JB’s dress, though black and velvet like most of the things she owns, is far more form fitting than she normally wears, and she glares down at her shiny little heels distastefully.

He shifts his shoulders in his own dark suit jacket and button up, resisting the urge to tug the collar away from his neck.

FP, now clean-shaven and wearing a black shirt and tartan sport coat, smiles vaguely at both of his children, though his expression is just as faraway and closed off as it had been before. He herds them towards his black SUV silently, and the sound of shuffling and buckling hangs awkwardly between the three of them.

From the front seat, Jughead casts JB a long, commiserating look over his shoulder, but she just glances away, her mood just as dour. He sighs.

It’s a short drive down to Thornhill, and sometimes Jughead doesn’t know why they don’t just walk, but he supposes the Blossoms would look down their noses at that. FP runs a hand over his slicked back hair as he rings the doorbell with the other, and instinctually, both Jones children stand a little straighter.

Penelope Blossom answers the door with a simpering smile. “Forsythe,” she greets silkily, and gestures the three of them inside.

Cheryl and Clifford stand beyond in the foyer like every bit the Gothic hosts, both of their hands laced in front of them. The otherwise unsettling effect, however, is belied by Cheryl blowing out a breath and rolling her eyes. Jason is noticeably absent, normally standing on the other side of Clifford.

They all shuffle into the dining room, the parents at the head of the pack, murmuring politely to one another. Jughead knows that these monthly dinners are still only tradition for the rubbing of elbows, but he has long accepted it’s just part of the world.

“ _Très chic_ little dress, Jellybean,” Cheryl says from beside them, offering her a seemingly genuine smile. Jughead doesn’t doubt it; she’s always been friendlier to his little sister than anyone else.

“Thanks,” she mutters, not bothering to correct Cheryl on the nickname.

He glances at Cheryl out of the corner of his eye; something about her seems changed. Like her steps are lighter, perhaps. Or, when she catches him observing her and doesn’t immediately scowl, he’s sure something is different.

But then they’re all taking their seats, are immediately besieged by food served on silver platters, and he loses the train of thought.

.

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.

Dinner is mostly a silent affair on his behalf, as, without glowing discussions of Jason’s achievements to occupy the conversation, much of the meal rotates around talks of maple syrup and the glass factory.

But he definitely doesn’t mind, even though FP takes a few moments to catch up the Blossoms on JB’s art camp and Jughead’s achievements in the Nationals League, to which they graciously listen, their faces completely blank.

Afterwards, the adults disappear into the smoking room to continue the business-heavy conversation, leaving Cheryl, JB, and Jughead to all three exchange bored looks. Cheryl immediately turns on her heel and click-clacks away in the opposite direction, but, wordlessly, JB and Jughead decide to head upstairs.

One thing he’ll give to the Blossoms—their house, dark, creaky and filled with more ghosts than cobwebs, is quite good for disappearing into corners. “I’m gonna go try to find the library,” JB says, glancing excitedly down the long hallway. He highly doubts this; he’s caught her trying to sneak into the infamous Blossom wig room more than once. “Wanna come?”

“Nah, I’m gonna wander.” Truthfully, he wants to sulk and try to not think about Betty, and he’d rather do that alone. “Come find me when we’re freed from our mortal cages and can go home?”

“You bet,” she replies, grinning, and peels off down another hallway.

He keeps wandering, vaguely testing doorknobs until one turns. The first one to give swings open to reveal a bedroom, lined with more trophies and medals than his own. Between that and the made bed, he suspects this might be Jason’s room, and so he slips inside, deciding that of all the places to be left undisturbed, this is probably his best bet.

Jughead splays backwards on the made bed, and closes his eyes.

He’s not sure how long he lays there, perhaps half napping, half fighting off the phantom of Betty’s kisses, but at some point, the door swings back open, abruptly followed by, “What are you doing in Jason’s room?”

Jughead glances up and over to see Cheryl in the doorway, backlit in an ominous kind of way, but as she walks over, heels clicking, her face is clear of judgment, just written with curiosity.

“Kind of thought this was the one room no one else would come in to,” he mutters, starting to get up off the bed, but Cheryl just waves a bored hand and drops into the leather armchair opposite it.

“Hm. Great minds think alike, I suppose,” she drawls idly, just as she crosses her legs and flips her hair in one smooth motion.

He squints. “Was that a compliment?”

“For you, maybe,” she sighs, pretending to inspect a speck of lint on her skirt. She’s silent for a long moment, but Jughead can see a thought forming behind her eyes. “I hate these dinners,” she says eventually, her voice brushed and low.

“I do too,” he agrees in the same tone, thinking of the forced niceties happening downstairs and how tawdry it all feels. His father in the sport coat and full of pretend. His throat runs dry and wants to change the subject, but the only other topic that comes to mind is the exact one he came in here to avoid thinking about.

Once more, tries to expel the flash of blonde from his thoughts, and eventually, he finds a scrap of words. “It was extra awkward without Jason to take up most of the discussion, though. Are you missing him?”

“Obviously,” Cheryl says at once, almost defensively, but then exhales. “Yes,” she clarifies, softer still, but stranger. “But around Thornhill—it’s not that different, really, in a lot of ways. My parents prefer me in the shadows.”

Jughead raises his eyebrows. He’s always suspected as much to be true, with Jason as the golden, center of attention, but no matter how blasé Cheryl attempts to deliver this hard truth, he can see the neglect behind her eyes.

He gets that.

Cheryl sighs and adds, “They only like me to exist when you come around, in hopes I’ll court my way into your heart.”

“And with it, my dowry, the factory,” he finishes, grinning wryly. This isn’t the first time they’ve cleared this air, with Cheryl privately and surreptitiously announcing _he wasn’t her type_ at the start of last year, but as she now returns his smirk, he realizes this is the first time they’ve ever actually joked about it. “Monopoly isn’t a subtle board game.”

She snorts. “If only Mother knew we were actually hiding away together in a bedroom, after all her machinations. I’d nearly tell her just for the look on her face.” Cheryl pauses then, eying Jughead up and down. “What are you doing in here, really? Where’s your sister?”

“She’s off messing with your dad’s wigs, probably,” he says, shrugging. “And I just wanted somewhere quiet to…think about things for a bit. Or not think.”

Cheryl promptly rolls her eyes. “Obviously. You’re not exactly subtle in your mooning, pushing your peas around a plate all through dinner. So, go on. Titillate me with gossip.”

Jughead scoffs. “Come on. You don’t care about my problems,” he says flatly, though hoping it doesn’t offend.

But she doesn’t look offended at all. Instead, she inspects her nails. “True,” she replies, and then glances at him. “But that’s how you know my advice will be honest; I don’t care enough to lie to you. And normally I wouldn’t ask, but I’m bored, thanks to this god-awful evening. So what have you got to lose?”

He exhales, considering this. It’s one thing to vaguely open up to his sister, and it’s another to bare his heart out to Cheryl Blossom of all people. “My dignity, maybe?”

“Please. Let’s not pretend you didn’t lose that years ago,” she scoffs. “And fine, don’t talk to me about it. Sitting here alone in the dark is clearly a lot less pathetic than suffering any remnants of toxic masculinity and refusing to admit you have feelings.”

“That’s not—” He starts, glaring. The tips of his ears burn, however, and he wonders if maybe there’s a grain there. He exhales. “Look, it’s just that I don’t know what I want, so I don’t even know where to start talking about it. So there isn’t much point.”

Cheryl raises her eyebrows. “Don’t know what you want…referring to someone specifically, or from life in general?”

He scrubs one hand down his face, somehow feeling like he fell into a trap in which he now has to open up. “No, I know how I feel about _her,_ but that’s about the only thing I’m sure of. I’m not sure what I could offer her because my whole life, everything around me, feels so…so…” But he can’t really finish that thought, or find the word for it. _Tenuous,_ he thinks. Shaky.

Jughead exhales and continues. “Or, I’m not sure what the point of pursuing anything would be, considering how different we are, or, really—how different our lives are. It just seems like too much of a risk. Like maybe we’d just be on borrowed time.”

“What do you mean?” Cheryl asks, recrossing her legs.

“Well—like, she’s from the Southside, and I think that really matters to her,” he explains, watching as Cheryl’s expression changes at once, into something perhaps only context could name. “And I don’t know how to tell her I don’t care about that kind of thing, or I don’t see her differently because of it. Honestly, I don’t know why it seems like such a big deal to her.”

Cheryl lets out a tinkling, slightly mocking laugh. “Of course _you_ don’t, Ivory Tower. Perspective is the key to understanding the human psyche, and isn’t half the point of privilege…not knowing you had it in the first place?”

“Fair point,” he concedes, grumbling.

“As it would happen, I do actually have a little bit of experience on this topic. So my advice is to not bring it up until she does, because it’s not really your place to comment on how different her world could be until you start to understand it.”

This is, objectively, very good advice, but the fact that it’s come out of _Cheryl Blossom’s_ mouth has just caught up to him. The last person he expected to lecture him on privilege, certainly. Through absorbing her words, he gapes at her, and she notices.

“What?” She snaps, forcefully shrugging a single shoulder, and reminding him much more of her usual self. “You think you’re the only one with a personal life? You think you’re the only one who has ever looked down the barrel of such a proverbial risk? Here I thought we were challenging straight boy snowflake stereotypes.”

She leans forward, eyes glinting. “Every choice is a risk, even the ones that seem safe. Because that’s how the world functions. Everything is a chain reaction, for better or for worse. So you might as well try to make it for better. Otherwise, life will make that decision for you, and you probably won’t like what it chooses,” she adds bitterly, checking the tips of her hair for split ends. And then she glances up.

For a long moment, they just look at one another. Cheryl’s moment of honesty, or perhaps vulnerability, seems to have caught up to her, and she settles back in her chair, running her tongue along her teeth.

He’s always thought of Cheryl as such an invading entity in his life; entrenched in both their parents’ worlds, a social obligation from birth. But he stares at her now, and realizes they might not be such different breeds of caged little birds.

More silence hangs between them, and for some reason, Jughead feels the fair thing to do is even the score. Tit for tat on airing dirty laundry. Or, maybe he just needs to vent. “This girl, ever since I met her, it’s like, she stormed into my life and just turned everything upside down,” he admits, in a half-fond, half-strangled voice.

Cheryl makes a small, knowing noise in her throat, and smiles down at her hands. “Speaking from experience—did actually she turn everything upside down, or just make you realize things already were?” She asks, in a surprisingly tender voice.

When he finally glances at her, she appears almost unnervingly sympathetic, an expression he can’t recall ever seeing her wear. He’s not sure what to make of it.

Her words settle down like a thick layer of dust.

_Did she turn everything upside down, or just make you realize things already were?_

He blinks.

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.

After JB comes to collect him from Jason’s room, wearing the kind of self-satisfied smile that only follows mischief and confirming his suspicions that she was busying herself moving everything in Clifford Blossom’s wig room off one inch, the Jones family returns to their own home.

FP is subdued again as he veers off to the kitchen, and JB disappears up the stairs and into her bedroom with a slam, leaving Jughead standing in the foyer, eyes flicking between the forked directions his family has left him in.

Cheryl’s voice rattles around in his ears, and he turns on his heel.

He mulls in the truck for at least ten minutes, completely buckled in and with his keys sitting patiently in the ignition, staring into the looming blackness of the forest beyond the driveway.

_Did she turn everything upside down, or just make you realize things already were?_

Strangely, his thoughts turn to Moose.

Obviously, their situations are very different, and the last thing he wants to do is compare their experiences—but Jughead does wonder, vaguely, if the point of attraction, or romantic feelings, or, dare he venture, _love_ —is to…do exactly what Cheryl said they could. Not change your life, but lift a curtain and show you exactly what you weren’t seeing before.

He wonders if this is the big _It_ that everyone waits for, that films score to, that songs swell to—or if it’s something that can only be found with hindsight. After all, really, didn’t things start to shift the moment he met Betty? The moment he saw his poor reflection in her eyes and wanted to change that?

There’s only one thing he’s sure of right now.

Jughead inhales, and turns the keys in the ignition.

The truck swallows up the dark road, old little headlights guiding him down past Thornhill again, down past the Mantle’s house, and onto the main road, still littered with other cars and neon road signs far off in the horizon.

He slows as he turns onto the block of his destination, going as far to park a few houses down, just to give a little bit more time to steel himself.

As he’d hoped, the little yellow light is on over the Cooper garage, and his throat feels dry and clammy all at once, but he keeps on walking. Her back is to him, folded over the engine once more, and his footsteps feel like heartbeats carrying him up the drive.

“Thought I might find you here,” he ventures, finally forcing his voice.

She glances over her shoulder at him, and then looks back down at the engine of the car. At first, he thinks it’s a dismissal, but then she puts down her tools and swivels fully around, biting her lip.

“Yeah,” she replies, with a bit of a sigh, but maybe the ghost of a smile too. “Thought you might find me here too.”

A little match of hope flares in his chest. “Does that mean we can…talk about what happened?”

Her mouth twists; she looks deflated with nerves. “Jughead…”

“Betty, I just—I need to say it, or get it off my chest, whatever. And you don’t have to say anything back, okay?” He says, hesitantly stepping a little closer. “Please?”

_Did she turn everything upside down, or just make you realize things already were?_

She’s still worrying her lip between her teeth, but nods.

Jughead does too, his own grateful as he runs a hand through his hair.

“I can’t get you out of my head,” he admits softly, but without much grace. His own nerves are spilling all over his words, but he’d rather be embarrassed than lose the momentum. “Lately, it feels like my life is slowly ripping apart at the seams. Or, that it has been for a while, but I just couldn’t see it. And a lot of that scares and confuses the fuck out of me—but I realized today, the only thing I’m _not_ confused about is…how I feel about you.”

Betty sucks in a breath, her eyes wide, but she doesn’t ask him to stop. If anything, she might move a little closer.

“And our lives are different, I get that,” he continues, his voice lowering. “And we don’t really know each other. But I want that to change. I like you, and I think it could be that simple.”

His chest heaves with the release of the confession, grateful to feel it dissipate into the warm night air, like something quite literally lifting off his shoulders.

“I want it to be,” Betty says finally, that fleck of worry back in her eye. “I—I—like you too, but but you don’t understand—the stakes are higher for me, Jughead. This…exact moment is the thing that derailed the lives of both my mother and sister.” She breaks off, shaking her head and rubbing at her temple. “I wish I could trust that things would be different.”

A pang hits at his heart. “Is this still about Jason Blossom?”

Betty inhales again, shrugging halfheartedly, as if unable to come up with another simpler answer; he suspects there is more than one, more than just Jason hidden somewhere between the lines of her history, and, dimly, it registers to him that this actually may not work out.

His shoulders fall, and he takes a step back. Betty’s eyes widen further, and, as if on impulse alone, she reaches forward and takes both of his hands in her own. “Wait, just wait,” she murmurs, immediately dropping his hands as soon as she’s stopped him from leaving. “I just need to think.”

Jughead offers her a wan smile, realizing that it’ll be better to have her in his life than not at all. Given time, he could probably move on. “It’s okay, I can deal. I’ve read up on the nonexistence of the friendzone and everything. We can just be friends.”

She lets out a skeptical bark of laughter. “Right, right. And how long would it be before I jumped you again?”

He can’t help the smugness rising onto his face. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Yeah, that’s my point,” she sighs, but she’s grinning back at him. And then seems to realize what she’s doing, as she then promptly groans again. “Juggie, I really want things to be simple, but…”

But, emboldened by the nickname on her lips for the first time, he’s already closing the distance between them, hesitantly rubbing the mountains of his knuckles over her arm. Gooseflesh rises under his touch, and slowly, she raises her chin to meet his eye, breath stuttering.

“We don’t have to call it anything,” he says, so low that it’s nearly a whisper. “We don’t have to tell anyone, if that’s what you want.”

The charged moment nearly breaks in half as Betty snorts, leveling him with a flat look. “You really think we could hide anything like that from Veronica?”

His lips curl upwards. “Something tells me she’d enjoy the guessing game.”

Thoughtfully, Betty’s fingers play a melody against the fabric of his shirt. “Maybe we don’t label anything,” she says finally, and almost to herself. She catches his look, and he feels the heat rushing every which direction in his body.

“We can just…hang out,” he agrees, in the same hushed voice. “Be stupid teenagers, et al.”

Her body is practically pressed against his own, and they both seem to realize it at the same time. The smile she offers him is thick with thought and outright amused. “Is this how you hang out with your friends?”

“Oh, yeah,” he replies, not skipping a beat. “All that locker room stuff gets heated real quick.”

She giggles, but quickly follows it with another sigh. She doesn’t seem at all uncomfortable about their proximity, however. “No labels,” she says again, on another breath. “And…just for the summer, okay? Things have to go back to the way they were when school starts.”

He swallows against that, but decides right then and there that he’ll face that gallow when the time comes. “Okay,” he agrees, nodding.

“Okay,” she echoes, her eyes flicking back and forth across his face. “Okay,” she whispers again, and then leans forward, once more kissing him first.

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.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: [the end of the world](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QKVYHJwIi2M) by sharon van etten, [chariot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qht0D21hiL0) by beach house, [ballad of sir frankie crisp](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uPESpC9sR5M) by george harrison, and [girl like you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fg7r4kQUbPw) by toro y moi. 
> 
> so this is end of act I! i hope you have all enjoyed it up to this point, and are excited about the second half of this story. i'm very sorry it's taken me so long to update, but life kind of knocked me on my ass for a while.
> 
> still, many moments in this chapter were a long time coming and there were a lot of elements i've been anxious to get right, so...please, it would mean the world to me if you commented and let me know what you thought. the support and encouragement i had during my personal rough patch, as a person and as a writer, really kept me going and meant a lot. 
> 
> so please, if you don't mind taking the time to review, i can't stress how far it goes. hope you liked this chapter!


	11. Chapter 11

It’s strange to think about the beginning of memory.

Being young, and the rising dawn that a moment being experienced is something one can collect, something to hold on to, something suddenly formed. And then the little dip of loss, because it comes with the realization that if you remember what you’ve done now, you’ve forgotten what you did before.

Like you’ve been standing in a room with an unplugged lamp, unaware of light and shadow.

Betty Cooper’s first memories lie somewhere between kicking her legs in a booster seat, the family cat licking her finger, and her mother wiping spaghetti sauce off her face. They’re little snapshots, wisps of something that could be real or perhaps something she just saw in a grainy photograph of her childhood and formed a story around, and she’ll never really know.

Her first real, sustained memory is around age six, in a field outside of town, halfway between the Southside and Centerville. It was a rare weekend where the Cooper separation was still fresh enough that her parents were trying to maintain good terms for the sake of their daughters, and she remembers being happy to go back to this particular park, a place she would return to often with her mother and sister, and noticeably not her father.

But on this day, the four of them were all together. She remembers the sun was already low by the time they arrived, because she could see the gnats collecting little outlines of golden light around the food. She remembers the colors in the sky, same as her favorite dress.

She remembers her father at the barbecue, smoke in his eyes but unwilling to budge from his position as master of the grill. Her mother hovering around the picnic table, probably arranging and re-arranging the plastic cutlery like it was fine china.

She remembers Polly kicking off her shoes, spinning in the grass like a lost little whirligig as the sun set behind her. Betty on the picnic bench, hands in her lap, staring off at the spot where she remembers seeing her first firefly.

They ate then, she thinks, but the memory gets hazy for a while until dusk tucked them in with its starry blanket, and then she and Polly used the now-empty Tupperware to run out in the grass and try and catch fireflies, something they did for years to come.

Polly wasn’t very good at it—always impulsive, she’d spot one and dart after the flickering light, and then slap the lid of her plastic container down on nothing but air. Whereas Betty was always more careful; she stayed still, waiting for the bug to light up, move a step towards it, wait for it to light again, and then guess how quickly it was moving and where, so that the next time it happened, she’d be ready.

She had caught three by the time the pink was nearly gone from the sky, and her memory is clearest as she held the Tupperware container up to eye level. Polly had scrambled over, and both of them pressed their noses against the plastic, _oohing_ quietly.

Betty remembers then being wholly seized by a strange feeling, unmarked by words, watching the three little bugs blinking back at her, fluttering against the walls. It was like—it wasn’t guilt, but there was a glimmer of her own reflection in the rough plastic, distorted and fuzzy, and it felt like the exhaustion and warmth of getting too much sun. It was overwhelming.

Polly had started shouting for their parents to _come look at what Betty had caught,_ but by the time the three of them ambled over, she’d released the fireflies back into the grass.

They’d hovered around her for a long moment, as if unsure of what to do with their freedom, or perhaps thanking her for returning it, as if she hadn’t put them there in the first place.

That’s the memory that’s clearest—her, in a soft, floral dress, the valley filled with the tail end of purple and the grass dry and green, three little fireflies swirling around her, unsure why they hadn’t immediately flown off. Maybe they hadn’t even realized they’d been caught.

That thought brought the feeling she still can’t name.

Polly’s mouth had twisted downwards upon realizing what had happened, their parents in tow, who didn’t linger once they’d all realized the fireflies were freed.

“Why’d you go and do that?” She’d asked, almost like she didn’t recognize her own sister.

Betty had watched the last firefly flit off, and said, simply, softly, “I don’t know.”

From thereon out, her memory was off-and-on cloudy and vivid.

Reflecting back now, she knows this is just growing up. Some moments are clear and bright, formative even though they’re the most indiscriminate snapshots of her childhood; like when Fangs moved in with his aunt and uncle, who lived down the street from her mother’s house and Alice told her sternly not to ask him about it, or when the old family cat went to the vet and didn’t come back—or the first time Polly ran away from home.

She remembers her mother yelling at the then-Deputy Keller on her porch, and Betty doesn’t remember the big words she used, but thinking back on it, it was almost certainly about him not taking their zip code seriously.

Alice had organized the whole block into a search party, even though Betty had to stay at home. Toni had gotten to come over though, and she remembers liking that, but not really understanding what the big deal was, because Polly was always threatening to run away and was probably just somewhere stupid, like at their dad’s house.

And, of course, that’s where she’d been—up in the attic of the house on Elm, pouting furiously to have been caught and dragged back to the Southside. Polly repeated that enough times that, at the start of that summer, Betty found herself being sat down by her mother and father to tell her they were going to give things one more try, for the sake of the family.

Betty was seven then, and didn’t really understand it, but she didn’t like how far she was going to be away from Toni and Fangs, even if the room at her dad’s house was big and pink and had a floral wallpaper that made her feel safe, like one of the houses in her American Girl Doll books.

Polly was positively gloating with glee and watching _The Parent Trap_ on loop and in love with her equally big bedroom and big yard—and for a long while, Betty assumes things were good, because she doesn’t remember them being bad.

She still got to see Toni and Fangs, even though they weren’t allowed at her dad’s house for a while. But now she got invite them to have ice cream at Pop’s, and there was a new kid hanging around with them now, tall and gangly but fit in nicely with their little gang.

There was a family next door at her father’s house, a boy about her age, and he was clumsy and goofy and her father thought it was a great idea for them to play together. She doesn’t remember much more than lemonade and cookies on a tray and that she liked them enough until that boy, who she recognizes now as Archie, once accidentally threw a softball right at her head.

There’d been another little boy around, as he often was, a black-haired boy who she knows now was Jughead, and she remembers him doubled over in laughter—not at her, but at Archie, who’d gone as red as his hair when Alice had stormed over to yell at Archie’s parents.

Betty wasn’t allowed to play with them after that.

But it was okay, because stray incident aside, she remembers feeling truly happy for a while, like maybe she was going to get everything normal little girls got—her friends, her parents, a big room that made her feel safe and sheltered; tucked up at night in quiet rooms that only _sometimes_ made her want a nightlight, flickering comfortingly.

But then it was the end of summer, and although she couldn’t name it then, she now recognizes the tension that was building in the family, settling in alongside the last stretch of seasonal humidity. Her parents were hardly talking, just yelling when they thought the girls had gone to bed, and stopped going in to work together, something they’d briefly started up again.

One night, late with carrying voices, and despite the heat, Betty remembers Polly crawling into bed with her, a twisted look on her face. Betty had understood it, though without having the language to describe it.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep.

It still feels like the next day that they were at the house next door for a birthday party, but Betty can’t be sure, because as clear as that summer was, she was still young and things were still fuzzy.

But one way or another, she found herself next door, stuffed into a pink party dress that made her feel like a piece of the birthday cake placed directly in front of her.

In a matching dress, but in blue, Polly sat slouched, her arms crossed, unwilling to speak to anyone, even Betty. She’d been grousing and stomping all morning without explanation; and although this wasn’t out of the ordinary, she remembers thinking it was strange that Polly would shut out Betty too.

On her left, was the laughing, black-haired boy, now with a missing tooth and a grin that did nothing to hide it. The birthday boy, sitting across from them, a lopsided paper cap strapped onto his head, was merrily ripping through presents.

This is where the memory becomes brightest.

Jughead kept looking at her and tugging on the sleeve of her dress, and it was making her cheeks flush, and thus she was doing her best to talk to her sister, and not him.

“Leave me alone, Betty,” Polly had mumbled, flicking a pea out of her leftover macaroni salad.

But, even then, Betty had never been good at leaving things alone—so she poked and pestered her sister until Polly snarled that she’d overheard their parents heavily agreeing to separate again before school started up. “Happy now?” Polly had snapped, and stormed out of her chair, and back towards the big white house.

Betty had stared after her sister, open mouthed, and then flicked her eyes onto their parents, standing just close enough together that it wouldn’t look odd, but certainly not speaking. Once she saw it, she couldn’t unsee it. They wouldn’t even look at each other.

Archie had paused his inquest of shredding wrapping paper off of boxes, and was watching her carefully, his eyes flicking between her and the retreating Polly. Jughead was shoveling down the last of his pasta salad and seemed to be giving it his full attention.

But Betty was staring back at her parents, suddenly understanding Polly’s fury.

She remembers feeling stupid, and feeling tricked—how fake their life had been in the big white house on Elm, how silly she was for feeling safe in the fortress of the pink wallpaper, how much she hated them for making her want things they would always take away. She felt like the firefly that didn’t know it’d been caught.

Her first taste of rage overcame her, metallic like blood on the tongue, and she reached forward, hand already half a fist, and sunk it into Archie’s birthday cake.

Across the table, his mouth dropped wide open, gaping at her.

Without knowing why, she pelted him with the corner of cake she’d ripped off, and then before she could realize what she’d done, the kid sitting next to Archie screamed, _“Food fight!”_ and it was promptly mayhem.

By the time the parents interceded and got everyone separated, Betty’s pretty pink dress was covered in macaroni salad and there was a sizable amount of frosting in her hair. Jughead was surveying the group of them with wizened amusement, and had reached forward to swipe a drop of frosting off Betty’s nose.

She had blushed so hard that she didn’t protest when her mother stormed over and forcibly dragged Betty back towards the house, muttering something about _reputations_ and _last straws_ and what was probably a well-practiced rant on Northside hypocrisy and _manners._

And that was it; as she remembers it, at least.

The next week, it was like they’d never been there at all.

But since she met Jughead again, a decade later, Betty hasn’t been able to stop thinking about that summer. She knows it wasn’t her fault they moved back to the Southside, knows the food fight probably wasn’t actually the final straw but something boiling between her parents for years, but—she wonders.

Wonders, as Jughead trails kisses down her neck, as her hands find purchase rifling through his curls, as he presses against her like no one ever has, making her, for the first time, realize what everyone means when they joke about _teenage hormones._

Wonders, as she measures seconds between the moments they catch their breaths, what her life would’ve been like she hadn’t thrown that cake, if her parents had stuck it out together, ifs, ifs, ifs—who would she be? Who would they be? What would they have already done, or hadn’t done?

In the middle of a feverish make out, twenty minutes after they’ve agreed to do whatever it is they are doing, however, probably isn’t the time to play the _woulda, coulda, shoulda_ game.

His lips feel like heaven against her neck, something she hadn’t known she’d be quite so into, and there’s a part of her that would like to stay in this garage forever, threading kisses. But she also knows—it’s late, and her father is supposed to get in from his business trip some time tonight, and given they’d already agreed not to tell people about what they’re doing, it seems silly to spill it not even an hour in.

“Jughead,” she mumbles, surprised to find her voice raspy. He appears distracted by his work against her span of skin, so she tries his name one more time, and hesitantly, he glances up.

“Mm?” He murmurs, eyes blown black and already dropping them onto her lips.

“My dad will be home soon,” she replies, but she can’t quite keep the smile off her face, especially infectious as his own is.

Something flutters heavily against her stomach; something familiar, yet quite unknown.

Jughead takes her words in slowly, as if his brain is taking its time untangling itself, and then nods. “Okay, I should probably go then.”

“Okay,” she agrees, half a whisper, but then leans forward and kisses him again, unable to stop herself. It just feels—feels—like nothing she’s ever known, and the curiosity of that thrill won’t quite let her go.

A few minutes later, he whispers, “I thought I was leaving,” against her lips, and she giggles, finally pulling back, just far enough to flick her eyes across his face.

“You probably should,” she drawls, grinning wryly at him.

“Don’t want your old man coming after me with a car wrench,” he muses, raising his eyebrows.

“There is no such thing as a _car wrench,_ and we’re going to strive for something a little less Freudian, anyway,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “Besides, if he knew I’d bagged a member of a founding family, he’d probably run off and get his mother’s ring right away. Which is way worse, trust me.”

That joke may strike too hot, because Jughead burns a little red, only barely masked by the leftover flush from their make out. “Right,” he manages to say, chuckling and running a hand through his hair. “Well,” he starts, though seems unsure how to finish it. “Um, I’ll…text you? What are you doing tomorrow?”

Her cheeks are starting to feel the strain of the smile she can’t fight off, and quite slowly, she shakes her head back and forth. “Nothing, probably,” she says, in a voice far more coy than she recognizes. And then she sighs. “The joys of fun-employment.”

“We’ll keep your mind off it,” he says, and then seems to realize the innuendo. “I meant—not—”

“It’s okay,” she laughs. It’s kind of adorable, the way he trips around his words sometimes. Like, for a guy she’d expect to have a lot of experience with girls being interested in him, he’s surprisingly a clumsy flirt. But she realizes she quite likes that about him.

“I just meant, we can go do something,” he huffs playfully, falsely frustrated.

She can tell he’s keeping it deliberately vague, especially given the conversation that preceded the kissing, as if he doesn’t want to scare her off. Truthfully, Betty doesn’t blame him; a large part of her is still furiously whispering this is a bad, bad idea. And if kissing him didn’t feel so deeply satisfying, she’d probably be listening to that part of her.

“Sure, we’ll do something,” she agrees, just as vaguely.

His lips curl up at the corners; they’re still kiss-swollen, and she can’t help but admire her handiwork in that. “Okay,” he says again, and then takes a step backwards, not taking his eyes off her. “Bye.”

Betty waits until he’s out of sight and the truck is rattling away in the other direction, and then falls against the side of her car, smoothing down the top of her ponytail, as she does when she’s nervous or excited.

She’s not sure which.

.

.

.

She wakes to pounding.

Sitting up straight in bed, Betty’s head swivels towards the source of the sound, which floats up once again through the floorboards. There’s a muffled shouting alongside the hammering noise, and her eyes widen with realization, kicking off the covers and rolling out of bed.

Opening her bedroom door, Betty peers around the hallway and quietly shuffles towards the top of the stairwell just in time to see her father stalking across the foyer and throwing open the front door.

He barely gets a word out before Betty sees her mother shoving past him and storming into the house. “Elizabeth!” She yells up towards the ceiling, and Betty barely has enough time to jump back around the corner, just out of view. “Elizabeth, you get down here right now!”

“Would you stop yelling?” Hal snaps, and Betty hears the front door slam shut. “She’s not here, Alice.”

“Of course she’s here, her sister couldn’t wait to rub that fact in my face,” her mother cracks, a sneer clear in her voice. “Then again, I never know if you’re _playing_ dumb, or if you’re _actually_ that dense to not realize you have another _person_ under your roof, Hal.”

“I’ve been out of town until last night,” Hal says slowly, dripping with faux-patience, as if explaining something to a child. “Are you telling me you don’t know where our daughter is?”

Betty hears a click-clacking of heels that is surely her mother rounding on him. “Oh, do me a favor, Hal, and shove that sanctimonious attitude right up your—”

“All the crap you give me about responsibility!” Hal interrupts hotly, both of their voices rising and attempting to overpower one another. “Christ, losing a handle on _one_ of our daughters wasn’t enough for you, Alice? And I think I’d know if Betty was here, so if you’re telling me that—”

“I am here,” Betty says loudly, stepping out from her hiding corner. Both of her parents immediately stop yelling, her father’s mouth comically dropping open as he looks up at her.

Alice twists her neck towards Hal, a smug, satisfied smile on her face, and gestures obviously up the stairs. And then turns her look onto Betty herself, her smile running thinner. “Go get your bag, Betty. This has gone on long enough.”

“Hey now—” Hal starts, but nearly shirks under the murderous look thrown his way. He pauses, and then attempts to stand up a little straighter. “If Betty wants to be here, she can be here.”

“No, Hal, she cannot _be here,”_ Alice snaps, her eyes threatening to roll back into her head. “We have a legal agreement—”

“She’s old enough to decide—”

“Oh, I didn’t realize the law doesn’t apply to y—”

“Stop!” Betty screams, feeling like her brain is about to short-circuit if they don’t stop yelling at each other. “Dad, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was here while you were gone. And look, Mom, I’m sorry too, I just really didn’t feel like being around Polly. We had a fight, and…”

Her mother’s face softens, but only fractionally. “Well, that doesn’t mean you get to just run away. I _graciously_ let you stay here for a few days after Polly told me what happened, but honestly, Elizabeth, I expect a little more maturity from you, of all people.”

 _That’s rich,_ she thinks sourly. But then again, her mother could’ve stormed this Bastille days ago, and the fact that she didn’t means she might’ve understood more than Betty gives her credit for.

Her will to argue deflates, but she decides to try one last time, “I just really don’t want to see Polly right now.”

“Well, you won’t have to for long. She’s been apartment hunting,” Alice sniffs, crossing her arms in a defensive fashion. “Happy?”

Hal glares over at the woman who is still technically his wife. “Polly isn’t old enough to get her own place,” he scoffs, half-disbelieving. “You’re letting her just—”

“Polly is eighteen,” Alice snaps, refusing to look back at him. “As you very well might remember. Try as I might, I can’t technically stop her from ruining her own life anymore—but our other daughter, I can still help. Now go get your bag, Elizabeth, I won’t ask you again.”

Sighing, Betty turns on her heel and goes back into her bedroom, throwing her most crucial items into a backpack. Not desiring to leave her parents alone for too long, she doesn’t dawdle, and by the time she trails down the stairs, they’re on other sides of the foyer, distinctly not looking at one another.

Hal shuffles forward when he sees Betty at the bottom of the stairwell, bag slung over her shoulder. “If you ever want to stay here longer, just call, okay?”

She guesses it’s probably more about winning one over her mother than it is about wanting Betty to stay, but she appreciates it all the same. “Okay,” Betty says quietly, though Alice shoots her a _don’t even think about it_ look.

“We’re not getting into custodial rights again, are we, Hal?” Alice sighs heavily, and steers Betty towards the door. They all know no court would sway in the right of an absentee father, which is half the reason they have this set up in the first place. “Come on, Betty,” her mother adds, softer this time.

Betty makes a goodbye, and then follows Alice into the station wagon, parked diagonally across the driveway. She can just imagine the fury her mother pulled up in. After they’ve silently buckled themselves in and Betty’s thrown her bag into the backseat, Alice turns to her, eyes sharp. “You have two choices. You can either go home, or you can come with me to work. At this point, I’m running too late to take you anywhere else.”

“My bike is here.”

The attempt to protest plainly does not work. Her mother eagles a look onto her. “I’ll bring you back later and you can pick it up. So. Work, or home?”

“Work,” Betty grumbles, slumping in her seat. Frankly, she’s still uninterested in even potentially having a run in with her sister, although her mother’s words ring through again. Polly wants her own place? Betty’s stomach twists, and she tries to remember that she’s mad at her sister, and that this is for the best.

“Good choice,” Alice says, turning the key in the ignition and backing out onto the road.

The drive to Carson College is much longer from her father’s house, the local community college being located on the far end of the Southside in order to be as central as possible for the two other towns feeding into it, Centerville and Greendale.

They pull to a stop in front of the train tracks; the crossing bar is down, a little red light flashing, signaling the imminent passing of a train. A lot of cargo trains move down this track, right through the middle of town despite the protestations from the Northside. And truthfully, it can be a bit annoying; Betty was once stopped at this intersection for a solid twenty minutes, waiting for the train to pass.

Betty watches the red light blink off and on, pressing her temple against the glass window.

Her mother sucks in a lungful of air. “I know you’re upset with this arrangement,” she says quietly, though her eyes are trained on the track ahead of them. “But sometimes we have to live with the lesser of two evils.”

“I’m not upset,” Betty replies, almost instinctually, and surprised to hear the way the words come out of her mouth. It’s the kind of thing she’d say anyway, to placate her family, but as she thinks on it, she realizes it’s the truth, too. Why isn’t she upset? She was, at the start of this all, feeling like she was stretching herself so thin to make everyone else happy.

Lately, though—she thinks about Veronica and Kevin, and then she thinks about Jughead, and it feels like she’s been doing things to make _herself_ happy, and barely even realized she was doing it.

She blinks, running through that thought once again.

Meanwhile, Alice throws her a contemplative look, but doesn’t press it. “Well, it hasn’t been easy on Polly,” her mother says, and at first it sounds like a jab, but there’s a clear edge of sadness to her voice. Then again, things haven’t been easy on Polly in a while, Betty thinks.

She stares at her hands, a memory rippling to the surface; Polly’s face when she saw what Jason and his friends had painted on the garage. “No, it hasn’t. She thinks I want to live there forever.”

Perhaps it’s bitterness, Betty thinks dimly, reminded forcefully of the young, failed attempts Polly made to keep their family together in that white house.

Alice presses her lips together.

“Is she really moving out?” Betty asks, hearing the strange, soft childish edge to her own voice.

“You know how your sister is,” Alice says by way of reply. “She follows her whims. Even if those whims have been increasingly erratic,” she adds, in a huffy tone that doesn’t do much to sequester how upset she actually is.

Betty wonders if she’s been gone too long—Polly has always been headstrong, but for all of her quips about Betty being Stepforded or body-snatched, Polly feels like the one with a sudden personality transplant. Since when did she go silent when Betty entered a room? Since when did she pick fights with Betty—since when did she not trust Betty?

“I know it’s…enticing,” Alice says tightly, after a long moment. Betty looks over at her, confused by the abrupt change in subject, but Alice just cricks her neck, like this confession physically requires it. “The Northside, that is. Everything seems so perfect there, and I understand that’s tempting.” She pauses, and then finally looks Betty straight in the eye. “But who you are is where you’re from, Betty. They’ll trick you into being ashamed of that, one way or another. They’ll try to take it from you. Don’t let them.”

What she doesn’t say is _they’ll try to take you,_ but it sounds like that. _I don’t want to lose both of you,_ if Betty reads between the lines.

She doesn’t know what to say.

There is a bell ringing loudly now, signaling the approaching train.

Alice stares back at the tracks, but her hands refold themselves tightly over the steering wheel.

The train passes.

.

.

.

When they pull into the Carson College parking lot, the campus is already full of students, crossing the lawn or mulling about it. “Come on, Elizabeth. I have a class in fifteen minutes,” Alice says pointedly, sliding out of the car.

She follows in suit, doing her best not to roll her eyes, and throws her bag over her shoulder. Her mother, still clearly vacillating between annoyance with Betty for making her late and relief to have her back at all, is already marching across the field towards the main building. “You can wait in my office,” she says simply, a thick file folder held against her chest.

“I’d rather sit outside,” Betty says, hustling to keep up with her mother’s brisk pace. “It’s nice out. I have my book.”

Spinning around, Alice pulls to a stop so suddenly that Betty nearly stumbles into her. The crease between her eyebrows smoothes out as she passes her daughter with a surveying sweep, as if perhaps catching herself being dismissive and wanting to amend that. “Of course,” she says, gesturing towards a bench under a lush willow tree. “I’ll see you on that bench in one hour. One hour,” she repeats, raising an eyebrow.

And then she’s off, swishing away down the main quad and disappearing through an archway, and Betty retreats to the bench under the willow, sweeping a curtain of leaves out of the way in order to sit unimpeded.

She barely gets a chapter into her book before her phone buzzes, and she stares down to a simple _Hey_ from Jughead.

Betty watches as the little ellipsis appears, disappears, reappears, and she attempts to smother her grin, imagining him typing and deleting and retyping. Eventually, he settles on,  _How’s it going?_

**_:) best you could come up with?_ **

_Yeah, but obviously, I really weighed my options. Ran through a few scenarios first. Had to make sure I maximized potential for a response._

She snorts. She can hear it in his drawling, sarcastic voice, just see his eye roll, the dimple that appears at the base of his cheek when she’s teasing him.

_So, it bears repeating: how’s it going?_

**_fine. i’m just waiting around at my mom’s work, reading. probably stuck with her for the day._ **

_That’s alright. Where’s your mom work?_

**_she’s adjunct at carson. teaches journalism and writing, etc_ **

_Sounds cool, actually._

**_yeah, i think she likes it. or she works a lot, so i hope she does._ **

Betty stares down at her phone, wishing she could come up with something more creative a response, that adamant fluttering around in her stomach again. He texted her first, so it only feels polite that she should close the distance and see if he wants to hang out. But—god, they’re supposed to be doing this casually, and it shouldn’t make her feel so nervous.

**_feel like doing something later?_ **

_Theoretically. I could be tempted._

**_you’re so full of it_ **

Once again, she catches herself grinning, wider still as he sends an awkwardly smiling emoji.

_I think I’ve gotta drop my sister off at the Bijou, but we can hang after that?_

As she reads and rereads his last text, all she can think is: _he isn’t asking her to the movies,_ and she doesn’t know why that makes her feel strange; certainly, that would’ve felt far too much like an obvious first date, and that’s definitely not what they’re doing. And if he had, she probably would’ve panicked. So why does it give her pause?

Before she can tap out a response, however, she hears her name being called across the lawn.

“Betty, hey,” Fangs calls again, jogging up towards her and readjusting the meaty looking textbook in his arms. “What are you doing here?”

“My mom teaches at Carson, I’m just waiting for her,” she explains, hastily shoving her phone into her bag as Fangs nods, as if just remembering. “What about you?”

He holds up the textbook, which she sees is actually more of a manual, tilted _Woodworking For Beginners._ “I’m taking a carpentry class,” he says, grinning toothily. “Just for the summer, but. Gotta start somewhere.”

Betty leans back on the bench, raising a hand to her forehead to block the sun out of her eyes. “Right. Polly said something about the Serpents helping you out with that.”

“Yeah. They didn’t want me to tell anyone that, but…you’re not a Serpent, so I guess it’s okay. And they’re not covering everything, but it’s enough,” Fangs says, shrugging.

To her own surprise, Betty doesn’t bristle at another mention of how she’s not a Serpent. “How’s it going?”

“Alright,” he replies, sounding genuine. “I mean, it’s not my first choice of careers, but it’s pretty secure. And I’m learning a lot, and I think my teacher is gonna try to help me get hired on a crew after graduation.”

“Wow, that’s—you’re not going to try for college, then? Not even here?” She pauses, hearing how judgmental she sounded just then, and immediately tries to backtrack. “I just meant—you always liked theater…”

The smile he gives her is strange. “This is my best option, Betty. Maybe I’ll get to take more classes at Carson later on, but…my uncle’s on disability now, and my aunt is working too much. It’d be nice to think bigger, but I like building things, and it’s good work, and trade skills pay well. It’s the right place to start.”

“Of course, sorry,” Betty says quietly, her cheeks flashing hot. Maybe her mother is already right; maybe the Northside has already tricked her into being ashamed of any other path but the one offered to her. Shame burns up her neck as he takes the seat next to her on the beach.

“Nah,” Fangs says, waving a dismissive hand. “I knew what you meant. And I get it, I’ve been trying to talk Sweet Pea out of the military for a while now.”

Betty frowns. “He’s still on about that? I thought after he talked to your cousin… I mean, and what happened to his dad…”

But Fangs is already shaking his head, and she trails out of the thought. “He’s back on it. You know how he is in class, and his grades…I’ve been trying to talk to him about what I’m doing, but he thinks all he’s good at is fighting.”

He’s silent for a moment, and twists one of his silver rings around on his index finger. “He’s taking this kinda hard, I think. You on the Northside half the time, me at class, Toni gone MIA—”

“Toni’s gone MIA?” Betty interrupts, blinking. She has a blistering memory of Toni across her field of vision, laughing with Cheryl fucking Blossom of all people. She’s been trying not to think about that, because there isn’t yet a conclusion she can come up with that makes a lick of sense. And if she admits she saw Toni there, she’ll have to admit what she was doing there—and—then she’ll have to talk about Jughead, and…the thought of explaining _that_ is worse. 

“She’s got a hustle going on, or something,” Fangs sighs, scratching at his chin. “But she’s still kinda mad at us for getting her in trouble during the 4th, I think, so whatever’s going on, she won’t tell me.”

Betty stares at him, worrying her lip between her teeth. She’s always valued Fangs’ sense of upright honesty, especially with so many other slippery people in her life, but right now, she doesn’t know what to do with this information. Guilt seeks entry into her heart; here she was, so preoccupied with thoughts of her sister or Jughead, that she missed what was going on with her oldest friends?

Fangs seems to read some of this on her face. “She hasn’t… You don’t know either?”

She exhales. Of all people, Fangs is probably the one person she could trust to tell and not judge, but wouldn’t know where to begin. “I haven’t really felt like seeing anyone lately,” she ventures, not meeting his eye.

But she hears him scoff lightly. “Well, don’t lie to me, Betts,” he sighs. She glances up. “I know you’ve been hanging out with some Northsiders. I know that guy Kevin—he tried to get me to come to some party, thought it would help me to know a friend of mine was there.”

Her mouth immediately opens with what would surely be a stammered excuse, but he waves her off. “I don’t care about that stuff the way Toni and Pea do, Betty. You know that. I even like some of them—I mean, Kevin’s nice,” he says, shifting in his seat and looking mildly uncomfortable to have admitted it.

“It’s just been weird, stretched between…two houses. I’m adjusting, but I didn’t mean to fall off the face of the earth,” Betty says, glancing back down at her folded hands.

He sighs. “Look, we all know you want to get out of Riverdale. But…life’s gonna keep moving for us even when you’re not there. Don’t be so surprised.” His voice is kind and soft, but Betty recognizes it for what it is: a gentle warning.

“But I guess that’s growing up. Things changing,” he adds, though still it sounds halfway like a question. Like he wishes it was.

 _I don’t want them to,_ she almost says, but—that’s not wholly the truth. Not that she ever wanted to lose her friends in the process. Maybe—maybe that was naïve. But the last thing she wants to do is throw away years and years with the people who shaped her childhood.

“Not everything has to,” Betty says, perhaps too stubbornly. 

He flicks an observant look onto her, expression twitching, and then he exhales again. “I hope not. But I gotta get to class,” he says, getting to his feet. He makes it two steps before twisting back in her direction. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“Okay,” she says softly, her eyebrows furrowed. His own match, and then he waves goodbye, heading off towards the main campus.

For a long moment, she sits there, watching him go, and then staring off at the archway he disappears through, her thoughts only broken by the buzzing of her phone in her bag.

It’s Jughead again, and she realizes she left him hanging once she reads his message, _Or we could do another night, if tonight doesn’t work?_

**_no, tonight’s fine! sorry, got distracted._ **

_All good. Should I pick you up?_

And risk the wrath of her mother? Betty nearly chokes on the thought. **_how about i just meet you on main? after you drop off your sister?_**

_Yeah, okay. 8?_

She cups her phone in both of her hands. It’s warm to the touch.

**_8._ **

.

.

.

She has to lie to her mother about where she’s going, and it nearly doesn’t work, because her excuse involves Toni and Alice makes a shrewd comment about how she hasn’t _seen much of Miss Topaz lately_ —and perhaps it’s guilt or sadness over Polly’s pointed absence from the house, but Alice permits Betty to go out.

As she crosses the tracks for what seems like the sixth time in a single day, it feels as though her heartbeat roars along in tune with the peppering of the engine, try as she might to squash it back down.

The bike tears down Main Street, and she spots Jughead standing under the neon lights of the Bijou; even at her speed, it’d be hard to miss the look on his face when he recognizes the whirring sound of her motorcycle. She pulls to a stop in the loading zone of the theater, flipping up the visor of her helmet and grinning at him.

He takes a careful look over his shoulder, possibly checking the coast is clear, but the milling crowd is full of tweens and adults, and certainly no one she recognizes. Jughead steps out from under the warm red neon and smirks back at her.

“Your ride or mine?” He asks, in that unmistakably flirty tone that she’s still getting used to from him; it’s growing more confident. But it’s been like a switch, between the two of them—now that they can see each other in the light, there’s no point in holding back.

“Are we going somewhere?” She asks, because truthfully, they haven’t gotten any further in their plans other than _hanging out,_ but she’d still been wondering if he might have decided a dark movie theater would work.

He shrugs. “We agreed to keep this between us. Don’t know how easy that would be strolling into Pop’s. And I’m supposed to be at the movies with my sister, so I can’t really offer up my place.”

“Good point.” She bites her lip through the grin. “Well, I’ve got a spare helmet.”

Jughead’s eyebrows rise. “Would I actually fit on the back of that?”

“Think so, yeah,” she replies, twisting around into her storage compartment for the old spare. “But only one way to find out.”

She’s not sure how many boys would be comfortable enough in their budding masculinity to accept the ride, and realizes that as she holds out the helmet. But he passes the test, pulling it over his head; it looks strangely natural on him.

“Do I just—” He hesitates, and then swings his leg over the back of the bike, settling into a sitting position. She huffs when it ends there, and reaches around for his arms, wrapping them around her waist, trying to ignore the electric shock that runs up her spine at the contact.

“Hold on,” she advises, turning around once more to flip his own helmet visor shut, which makes him chuckle.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he murmurs, just barely audible over the muffling of the helmet. “Where are we going?”

“I have an idea,” Betty replies, and then kicks off from the ground, Jughead’s arms warming around her waist.

She turns her bike around and heads back in the direction she came; she passes the Southside library, passes the street that would turn off onto her block, passes Carson College, and drives far enough to the edge of town that they’re halfway to Centerville by the time she pulls to a stop, her motorcycle skidding across a pebbled parking lot.

Slowly, Jughead unwraps his arms from around her, and lifts his visor back up. “I see we still haven’t ruled out your intent to murder me,” he says slowly, gesturing vaguely at the field beyond them, even though it’s still littered with a few families and the smoky afterthought of barbecues.

He cuts his leg over the bike, standing now, though a little unsteady on his feet at first. He offers her a hand up out of her own seat. “Where are we, anyway?” He asks, as they both take off their helmets.

“Just somewhere I came a few times as a kid,” Betty says vaguely, her cheeks turning a bit pink. “My sister and I used to catch fireflies out here when we were growing up. I just…didn’t think anyone we know would be here,” she adds, almost defensively, but she’s not sure whom exactly she’s defending the choice to.

Jughead looks at her, blinks a few times, and then smiles, long and unfurling. He crooks his head towards the open field. Just like all those years ago, the sun is quite low in the sky, filtering it with dusky undertones. Their shoes whisper thoughts to one another across the soft grass, as they search for a secluded spot to lie down in.

Betty feels painfully out of words as they settle down in the meadow, her lips pressing together. In the past, even when she thought she hated him, he was still so easy to talk to—banter pouring out whether she wanted it to or not. But now, she wonders if she set herself up to fail; they agreed not to label things, not to talk about what was between them. And now, ironically, she isn’t sure what _is_ safe to talk about.

She almost wants to tell him about how frustrated she is with her sister, talk to him about the things Fangs said to her. He’s a good listener, and would probably know exactly what to say. But she was the one who wanted to keep this light, and now all she’s left with is a thrumming energy strung between them, and unsure what to do about it, save for one option.

Just like before she kissed him in the garage last night, she can practically hear her heartbeat drumming in her ears. So, deliberately, and strictly out of nerves, she avoids looking at him, instead tucking her chin atop her folded knees, staring out at a family across the field, kicking a soccer ball around to one another.

For his part, Jughead leans back on his elbows. “This is nice,” he says quietly, and when she glances over, he’s watching her intently. His chest heaves a little.

Rather than scrounge for a line, she leans forward, and he meets her halfway.

She’s still got no idea what they’re really doing; they’d landed on the vaguest terms, and even as she’d requested it, she was already wondering if the confusion about what to expect from him was going to be worth it.

But as their lips meet, she remembers why she’d thought this was the right idea—because _this_ is the part about their relationship that makes sense. _The only part,_ she determinedly tells herself, as he rises up out of the grass to kiss her more soundly.

Unlike last time, this is idle, as lazy as the sinking sun, even as they slide down into a position that is half upright, half experimentally tangled, the grass tickling at every inch of exposed skin. Kissing him in the moment, she feels strangely young and free, even if she objectively knows she already was both of those things. 

More strangely, this all reminds her of that first night of summer when she saw him behind that caged door, following the rhythmic chimes of lightning. The crickets around her ears, the dew underfoot, the gap in timekeeping.

If only she could’ve known. But there had been fireflies flickering around that night, too. 

Eventually, they break—but where last time it’d been feverish and left her craving, this feels sweeter, softer, although no less magnetic. For however she just bemoaned her newfound sense of silence around him, she does appreciate the unspoken pace they’ve set things—he’s still only the third boy she’s ever kissed, and she’d be lying if she wasn’t already wondering if he’d be the first of something else, but that thought is still in the back of her head, clouded behind a long list of pros and cons she’ll surely stew over soon enough.

Still gazing hazily up at her, Jughead rubs a thumb at her temple, and she belatedly realizes he’s pushing hair off her forehead.

He looks almost confused by his own gesture, and then glances over her shoulder.

“Hey,” he says quietly, motioning with his chin. “Fireflies.”

Betty turns around.

Off in the distance, she sees the first flicker of light. And then, a moment later, and much closer, she sees another blink of color. Silently, they both stare out at the field; it’s nearly dark, and the little valley has filled with the bugs while they weren’t looking. It’s amazing they missed them, she thinks, realizing just how many snuck out into the grass alongside the crickets and cicadas.

The family with the soccer ball, who seemed to be quite plainly keeping their distance from the two of them, is packing up the remains of their game. One of the kids chases a firefly around the grass, and Betty has a pang of nostalgia that nearly hurts more than anything.

“I used to be really good at catching them,” Betty says softly, more to herself, watching the kid run in circles around the firefly. The world feels washed with purples and blues, a darkness, but soothing all the same.

“Yeah?” Jughead asks, sitting into an upright position, his arm slung over the edge of his knee.

“Yeah,” she echoes. “My sister and I. We’d put them in jars and keep them in our rooms for a night. Or, she would. It always made me kind of sad.” Without waiting for his response, and certainly not wanting to see his expression, she then pushes herself to stand, tracking the movements of one firefly a few feet off.

She swallows, and then gently claps her hands out in front of her, feeling the slight buzzing against the pad of her skin. When she turns around, Jughead has also gotten to his feet and is standing beside her, staring down over her shoulder curiously.

Slowly, Betty uncups her hands, revealing the little bug crawling across the age line of her palm. It appears unbothered to have been captured, now that it’s exposed to free air again.

She holds up her hand to both of their faces, watching as the little firefly calmly walks across her palm; Betty twists it as the bug crawls onto her finger, blinking its warm light every other second or so.

Betty glances up, just barely catching the yellow light flicker against Jughead’s face.

She’s always been drawn to these little bugs, but never quite understood her feelings surrounding them; as many times as her parents told her it wouldn’t hurt the bugs to keep them for a day, she wasn’t lying when she told Jughead it made her sad. She’s never liked seeing them captured, held in place to please someone’s whims.

But as the firefly patiently trails across each of her fingers, Betty thinks it must know it can leave whenever it wishes; it trusts her, somehow. The light is the moment held, not a creature, and it offers that to her willingly.

Jughead meets her eye. He reaches out his hand, and she gently encourages the firefly to crawl across, into his own palm. The bug sits there for a moment, blinks once more, and then it’s gone.

.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: [unchained melody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kZnc6Fz7tig) by she & him, [dream a little dream of me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJwjLYRPxJY) by the mamas and the papas, [why can't i touch it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L1G0jl0Vc64) by the buzzcocks, and [nothing compares 2 u](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cpGA0azFdCs) by prince, and the posthumous release of this song has completely turned my life upside down. listening to it on _loop_
> 
> this chapter originally had some other conceits tied to it, but i pushed it back a bit because i really wanted to honor that fluttery, young love feeling that i have so much nostalgia for. especially for betty, who has the tendency to suppress so much. 
> 
> i hope a lot of the layers spoke for themselves; fireflies, who light up to attract their mates, and the moment in which betty shared the little bug with jughead were big turning points in her ability to trust. and as always, thanks to my beta, jeemyjamz, who caught quite a few typos this go around. 
> 
> on my end, life's been pretty chaotic lately, and i'm sorry updates have slowed, on this fic and my other ongoing ones. i don't see my life getting any less busy any time soon, but i'm doing my best to deliver, and i appreciate the patience and continued readership you guys hopefully will still have! 
> 
> but---when i'm stressed about work and feeling like there isn't much time to squeeze in writing time, your comments and feedback are seriously what keep me going. so, pretty please, drop me a review if you can. it means the world, especially with the next two months looking pretty busy. pretty please!


	12. Chapter 12

Not long after the little firefly darts out of his palm, it seems that twilight comes and goes in the blink of an eye. The field is still scattered with the blinking golden lights, but the family with the soccer ball is gone, and Betty doesn’t seem willing to capture another bug, instead settling into the grass beside him once more and thoughtfully staring out over the valley.

After a few moments of this, she stirs again.

“I guess you should probably get back,” Betty says as she gets to her feet, scratching at the back of her leg, the place his hand had ghosted over as they had laid down in the overgrown grass, not quite sure where he was yet allowed to touch, or perhaps not yet brave enough to try. She glances at him. “I mean, your sister’s movie is gonna be out soon, right?”

His lips twitch. “I asked her to go to a double feature, actually,” he admits, feeling inexplicably bashful as they walk back across the clearing towards the parking lot. Betty passes him a raised eyebrow, so he adds, “She owed me. I’ve been chauffeuring her around all summer.”

She glances off in the direction of her motorcycle, and when she looks at him again, she’s grinning. “I’m chauffeuring you around right now. Does that mean you owe me too?”

There’s a tingling sensation just below his navel, and he meets her smile halfway, newly emboldened again. “Logic wouldn’t abate that. What’d you have in mind?”

Jughead watches as she licks her lips. And then her eyes roll, though it doesn’t quite have the full effect of breaking the moment. “How about dinner?”

“You’re speaking my language,” he murmurs, still grinning. They pull to a stop in front of the motorcycle and he hoists one leg over, sliding forward into the front half of the bike this time. His hands roll experimentally over the handles, and then he glances up at Betty, summoning his best Elvis impression. “How do I look?”

She takes a moment, surveying him. “Surprisingly natural,” she sighs, with a falsely begrudging approval, crossing her arms. “Took me a while to look that at ease on my bike.”

He scoots back on the seat so that she can mount it herself. “Golly, a compliment. I think I’ll swoon,” he says wryly. “So where to, maestro?”

She giggles, and settles in front of him. “I know a place. It’s nothing special, but we won’t run into anyone there.”

He nods, and she revs the engine.

This time, he doesn’t have to be told to put his arms around her.

.

.

.

He glances around as Betty kills the engine, searching for something he recognizes, but it’s like they’ve truly entered the uncanny valley; the diner they’ve stopped in front of is warmly lit, litters a puddle in the parking lot with blue neon light, and bears a sign with a familiar twenty-four-hour promise. It looks almost exactly like the inverse of Pop’s, right down to the door.

Jughead frowns and pulls off his helmet. “Okay. Are we in the Upside Down?”

Betty giggles ahead of him, and gets off her motorcycle, removing her own helmet as she does. “I know, it’s kind of weird,” she sighs, glancing at the diner before them, which bears the name “Centerville Charlie’s” in similarly bulbous lettering. “I think they stole Pop’s decorator.”

“To be fair, Americana is a limited aesthetic,” Jughead admits, following Betty in towards the place; the closer he gets, the more convinced this is truly is Pop’s in reverse. “There’s only so many ways to skin a neon cat. How do you know about this place, anyway?” He adds, holding open the door for her as they pass under a tinkling bell.

The face she pulls is so fast he nearly misses it. Meanwhile, a wispy blonde waitress in a pea-soup outfit throws them a cursory sweep, and then points at a booth near the entrance before disappearing in the opposite direction.

As Betty slides onto a black vinyl seat, she fiddles with the end of her ponytail. “We used to have to come here sometimes. Growing up, I mean,” she explains, looking embarrassed. “When the economy crashed, there was a bit of…chaos on the Southside. A lot of people lost their homes and had to move into the trailer park behind Pop’s. And…some Northsiders didn’t like the new crowd, especially Serpents, hanging around the diner. And made it pretty clear.” She glances down at her hands, folded in her lap.

Jughead blinks at her, both surprised by her candor and the words themselves. He doesn’t remember anything like that growing up—but then again, maybe that’s the bigger point he keeps missing.

“Christ. But that’s so unfair,” he says, immediately kicking himself for such a lame response.

She flicks her eyes back up at him. “Yeah, it was,” she agrees. And then she shrugs. “But it’s not like some of the Serpents were exactly…neighborly. So that didn’t help. Things were tense for a while, and everyone I knew was either a Serpent or the kid of a Serpent, so we had to go out of town for our milkshake fixes until things smoothed out. The burgers aren’t that good here, but the fries are alright, at least.”

Betty reaches towards the little mini jukebox on the table and pulls two laminated menus from behind it. She passes him one and immediately ducks her head down towards her own, seeming to study it intently, but he guesses it’s more of a stalling tactic, like she may not know what else to say.

He can’t help but think, whatever step they took in their friendship—if it’d really been that before it morphed into long looks and what he belatedly knows was utterly obvious flirting—it may have had a side-effect, one he’s not sure how he feels about.

Because before, even when they were more or less biting each other’s heads off, at least they’d been able to _talk._ They called each other on their shit, even when they didn’t know each other.

Now it’s like—whenever he looks at her, all he feels are nerves and flutters that are only appeased by the act of kissing her, and he barely knows what to say, especially since they deliberately kept the rules unclear and he’s not sure what he can ask of her.

Ironically, all he has are questions. Should he ask her about her day? Ask her about her family? Where she wants to go to college? Can he hold her hand? Does he want to? Or is that what boyfriends do?

Meanwhile, Betty steadfastly maintains her attention down on the menu. He wonders if she’s nervous too.

She’s just so pretty, and he feels like he’s six years old again.

Betty glances up again a moment later, clearly realizing he’s still watching her. Her cheeks twist pink. “What?”

“Nothing,” he replies, and promptly tries to focus on the menu before him, as if he already doesn’t know it won’t be exactly the same as Pop’s, let alone pretty much every diner in America.

“Y’all know what you’re having,” asks a drawling voice from the edge of the table, and both look up to see the same waitress there, her hands on her hips. Her nametag reads DARLA in prim letters.

“Grilled cheese and onion rings,” Betty says, putting her menu away behind the mini jukebox. “And a strawberry milkshake.”

“Just a burger and fries,” Jughead says, prompted by Darla’s impatient look to him.

As soon as she’s gone, Betty passes him a wry grin. “Risky. I told you the burgers aren’t good here.”

Aloud, he says, “A burger’s a burger,” but to himself, he thinks that—well, he’s been taking a lot of risks lately. Namely, the one sitting opposite of him. So what’s one more?

“Suit yourself,” she replies, inching across her side of the booth to get a better look at the mini jukebox. She flips through a few slides, and then smiles at him. “Got a quarter?”

He pulls out his wallet and drops a few loose coins onto the table, which Betty swiftly swoops up and deposits into a slot on the machine. A few moments later, a familiar churning and tapping opening score lilts across the diner, which Jughead recognizes as the start to _Stand By Me._

“I love this song,” Betty admits, smiling as she scoots back into her seat. Her hand curls underneath her jaw just as the song murmurs _when the moon is the only light we see._

“It’s a classic,” he agrees, her grin contagious. A violin swells, and then there’s another pause. _Just talk to her,_ he thinks. _Stop making it so weird._ “So…how was your day? You were with your mom, right?”

Betty runs her tongue over her bottom lip, as if considering her words. “Yeah. I kind of thought I should, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugs. “It’s just been weird at home right now, because I’ve been staying at my dad’s every other week this summer. And it’s just been making everyone…” She blows out a breath, her head shaking. “…Crazy. Like, first my sister Polly really freaked and then I—” But she stops abruptly, her eyes on him. “Sorry. You probably don’t want to hear about this dumb drama. It’s a long story.”

“No, I do,” he insists, scooting a little closer in his seat. “Really.” _I just want to know you,_ he thinks.

Her smile is small and almost touched, but he likes that little look far more than much else he’s seen yet on her face. And then she appears to gather herself. “Okay…remember the other day, in my dad’s driveway?”

“Yeah, I’d been thirty seconds from either shooting myself in the foot or asking for your number when your sister showed up,” he snorts, as her smile briefly broadens.

“Well, after you left, Polly just…totally lost it. She was acting like I’d betrayed her and basically told me not to come back to the Southside,” Betty sighs. “And that made _me_ mad, even though I probably would’ve had the same reaction, in her shoes.” At his look, she adds, “My sister…had a rough time last year. There was a video of her circulating at a party where she—it wasn’t super explicit, nothing illegal, but like…just barely. Polly had always had a reputation as a bad girl. But she said she didn’t mind that, you know?” Betty pauses, watching his reaction.

He’s never fully had this back story on the mysterious dealings between one Polly Cooper and Jason Blossom, but—the name _was_  somewhat familiar the first time Betty gave it, and now he’s starting to collect the pieces. Jason, huddled in a circle with the rest of the baseball team, Chuck Clayton snickering as the people in a cell phone’s audio hooted and hollered.

“She and Jason were on and off…until she found out his friends were the ones behind by circulating this video of her around. Jason was apparently telling people—well, it got nasty,” Betty says, her voice turning bitter. “Then the video got to Southside. The rival gang, the Ghoulies, sent it around too. A few days later, some jocks spray painted _SERPENT SLUT_ on our garage, and then some of the Serpents returned the favor by trashing a couple of cars in the Riverdale High parking lot.”

 _That,_ Jughead does remember.

Hard not to. It’d dominated the school gossip for weeks; half the football team had either had dents the size of bulldogs put into their hoods, and anyone who dared leave an open convertible had had paint dumped inside. The administration had never been able to prove who’d done it, but popular buzz had actually been correct, Jughead now realizes.

“After that, Polly dropped out, just a few months short of graduation. She said it wasn’t because of Jason or the video, but I think she was just—sick of it,” Betty finishes, folding her hands in front of her on the table. “And then…my parents blew up. Mom tried to stop Polly, but she’s eighteen, and… My dad all of a sudden acted like he was so invested in our lives, and tried to step in, but it only made Polly madder and dig her heels in more. Which is what she always does. Even when I told her I wanted to help get justice for what they did to her, she just got upset, and told me not to bother. Repeatedly.”

She takes a long breath. “So it was like, then our parents started seeing Polly as a lost cause, and then…they started really caring about what _I_ did, making sure I didn’t repeat all of Polly’s mistakes. My dad wanted me to transfer to Riverdale, my mom freaked, they fought over it for a few months, and…basically, that’s how I got into the arrangement for the summer. But it’s definitely not over. This was supposed to help _stop_ World War III, but lately I feel like it’s only been making things worse.”

Jughead stares at her across the table. Her eyelashes flutter down, eyes on her laced fingers. “That…is fucked,” he manages to say, and to his astonishment, she bursts into a giggle, and meets his gaze.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s fucked,” she agrees, exhaling. “Though maybe it’s more fucked that I don’t hate the whole thing as much as I thought I would. There _are_ perks,” she adds, flashing her eyes at him.

He grins, and she purses her lips against the amusement.

“I _meant_ that my room there is bigger, I get a lot more privacy, and my own bathroom. And my dad is giving me a car, once we’re done fixing it up. But…anyway, that’s why I felt like I should spend the day with my mom earlier. She hasn’t yelled at me like Polly did, but it’s actually weirder that she hasn’t. Normally, she’s such a control freak, but now it’s like... Ever since my dad started going on about me transferring to Riverdale because it would look better on my college applications, I think she’s sort of been stuck in some kind of ethical paradox loop in her head.” Betty sighs again.

“I know it doesn’t do much, but I’m sorry you’ve got to deal with all that,” Jughead replies, and before he can over think it, reaches forward and cups her folded hands with his own. They both flush, and he pulls it back after a quick squeeze. “If it’s anything, I know what that’s like, to feel torn between worlds.”

As he says it, he realizes that _is_ what he’s been feeling, or at least working towards writing down in the plainest terms—torn.

And maybe that’s kind of his typical teenage melodrama, or maybe that’s why he’s always felt drawn to Betty; maybe he recognized the same kind of internal warfare in her that he never knew how to name in himself.

Betty smoothes over the top of her ponytail, nodding slowly, eyes not leaving his. He feels a bit laid bare underneath her look, but doesn’t want to take it back.

Besides, he’s touched she told him any of this at all; he’d been expecting maybe a fraction of it, given how anxious she seems to be around the topic of her family. He guesses she just needed to get a lot of this off her chest, but he’s grateful to have been the vessel.

She shrugs. “Anyway, it’s fine. Polly just freaked, but she’ll get over it. She never wanted me in the Serpents, so I don’t get why she’s always so mad that I followed her advice. I can’t win with her. And it’s not like I _am_ transferring—My grades will be the same no matter where I go. Plus, I don’t want to leave all my friends at Southside.”

Jughead wonders about that, wonders about the way _it’s fine_ came out so practiced, but figures it’s not his place yet to press it. Instead he says, “I just realized, you know all about my friends and I don’t know a thing about yours. Like, who’s the girl with the pink hair?”

Betty’s expression relaxes, perhaps grateful for the subject change. “That’s Toni. She’s been dyeing it since we were kids. My friend Sweet Pea actually used to call us Pinky and the Brain, until Toni got cable in her place and figured out being called Pinky wasn’t really a compliment,” she laughs. “Sweet Pea puts on a hard face, but when he cares, he _really_ cares, with every part of him. I don’t really know anyone else like that. And Fangs is great—he’s so nonjudgmental and sweet, you know? He’s studying carpentry at the community college for the summer.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Sweet Pea and _Fangs?_ Christ, and people still give me a hard time for Jughead. Maybe _I_ should transfer schools.”

“You might actually fit in better than me over there, name wise. I’ve been called…let’s see, Betty Crocker, Betty Draper, and Betty Boop,” she says, counting off on her fingers. “Not too original.”

“Reggie’s the only one of my friends who gets creative with the nicknames. I’ve honestly lost track.”

“He’s got you stored as Dottie in his phone, you know,” Betty says. “From  _A League of Their Own,_  right?”

He groans. “Of course he does. Don’t know what I expected from a guy who spent a solid handful of months unironically introducing himself as ‘Mantle the Magnificent’ to girls, though.”

She hides a snicker behind her hand. “Well, Toni also sometimes calls me Wormy, which I hate. Short for Bookworm, she claims. Used to tell me it’d be my Serpent nickname when I joined up.”

There’s a pause.

Jughead watches as she bites at her lip and glances off, the subject clearly bringing up some mixed feelings, and he wonders, not for the first time—why she _isn’t_ a Serpent when everyone he’s seen her with has a big snake patch clearly visible; she had mentioned something about Polly telling her not to, but based on the look on her face, there’s a longer story there.

Just then, their food arrives, which the waitress practically dumps on the table in a clatter before swishing off. Remembering Betty’s warning, Jughead pokes his burger with a fry a bit experimentally—it _looks_ innocuous, if albeit the lettuce appears a bit wilted. Betty has already started eating, a bubble in her cheek that is half food and half a grin.

He takes a bite, and immediately cringes. “It’s _cold,”_ he sputters, scandalized. “Who serves a _cold_ hamburger?” He forces himself to swallow, and it’s worse, so much worse. “Jesus Christ, is this thing made out of an old car tire?”

She giggles, and passes him the untouched half of her grilled cheese. “Warned you.”

“Bets, I can’t take your food just because I was too lazy and stubborn to heed your advice,” he sighs, but Betty drops her offering onto his plate anyway. “This is like, sloth, pride, and gluttony, all in one life lesson.”

She snags one of his fries and pops it into her mouth. “The life lesson being that you should always listen to me?”

His lips twitch. “Seems so.”

Betty appears to like that answer, mouth curling into a coy little smile.

She steals another fry.

.

.

.

Cold, rubbery hamburger aside, Jughead does feel like “Centerville Charlie’s” has had its reward; whatever curse was lingering over them, making him too fluttery and nervous around her for even effective small talk, appears broken.

They spend the rest of their meal trading off side dishes and she tells him about the new book she’s reading _(“Well, rereading. But Toni Morrison is eternal.”),_ and he tells her about the guys he bunked with for Nationals training, and how he’d felt like both members of the odd couple.

“It was all very bah, bah, black sheep,” he says, picking at the last of her onion rings. “They were genuinely confused that I wanted to read instead of watch ESPN. To the point where they seemed kind of worried about me.” He chews. “Maybe they thought I was depressed.”

Betty laughs. “Well, Juggie, maybe you’re just not like other jocks,” she replies, mockingly wide-eyed, clearly calling back to their first meeting, where she’d snapped at him about potentially thinking _she wasn’t like other girls._

He thinks he’ll never tire of that nickname on her lips. And then—thinks he probably shouldn’t get used to it, if he can help it.

_(Yeah. Right.)_

“Anyway,” she says, tossing her napkin over their emptied plates, which were long pushed together to create a tandem sharing system. “I never asked _you_ how _your_ day was.”

“Oh,” he says. He’d spent the better part of the day refusing to acknowledge the downstairs level of his house, where his father spent _his_ better part of the day on the couch. The thought that had plagued Jughead the most—on the average day, if he wasn’t at school, Jughead was out training at the diamond. But he’d been forgoing his daily practice lately, and was starting to realize, the assumption that his dad went into work every day may have been just that.

He exhales. “Nothing major to report. I just did some writing.”

(This, at least, is true.)

Betty slips her chin into her cupped palm. “I didn’t know you wrote.”

His ears burn. “I don’t. Or, I didn’t. I mean, I always liked it in school, but with baseball, I never really had time for any other hobbies. But my sister brought it up after—well, she’d been taking this summer art camp thing, and had a class on stream of consciousness, and…I don’t know, it didn’t sound _completely_ terrible when she suggested it. I’ve been kind of into it since.”

“That’s really nice,” she says, sounding genuinely like she means it. And maybe, if he were so bold—a bit impressed.

“It’s like—I didn’t even know I had some of these thoughts until I saw them written back at me,” he sighs, thinking of his father again. “It’s been a little through the looking glass, in the surrealist sense. But I like it, somehow. Even if I don’t actually know what to do with the backlog of shit it drudges up.”

Her eyes trail across his face, curious.

His phone buzzes suddenly, breaking whatever moment that was moving towards. Jughead realizes it’s his sister and the time, and curses just before answering it. “Uh, hey, JB.”

“Yo. I’m outside, where are you?”

He glances across the table at Betty. “Don’t be mad. Centerville.”

JB exhales loudly over the line. “O-o-of course you are,” she says. “After all, it’s not like you have a wonderful little sister you repeatedly promised you wouldn’t keep waiting after she _graciously_ agreed to sit in a dark theater by herself for nearly four hours while you pursued a top secret date.”

“I’m going to ignore the bulk of that,” he replies, rolling his eyes. Sometimes, JB really is a brat. He’s been driving her around everywhere all summer, practically at her beck and call. The one time he’s late. And wasn’t _she_ the one urging him to care about something other than baseball? “We’ll just pay right now, and I promise, be there in half an hour.”

She grumbles something inaudible and abruptly hangs up.

Betty quickly stands, having either overheard the conversation or interpreted it correctly. “We lost track of time. Sorry.”

“Trust me, don’t apologize for that,” he replies, and can’t help but bump her shoulder a little as they walk towards the register together. Darla punches something into the machine and then stares expectantly at both of them. “That’s twenty-fifty.”

They pull for their wallets at the same time. “Let me,” he offers, at the same time that Betty says, “Dinner was my idea.” They both pause.

“We’ll split it,” he tries.

She bites her lip. “Or…I could just get the next one.”

Jughead can feel the dimples wrestling on his face as he desperately attempts not to jump out of his skin. “I don’t know. That’s very assumptive of you, Betty Cooper,” he replies, giving in to the desire to grin.

He hands over his cash to Darla, who rolls her eyes at both of them.

.

.

.

Whatever hot water he was going to be in with his sister promptly evaporates into steam as he rolls up to the Bijou on the back of a shiny black motorcycle.

JB’s mouth drops open as he lifts up the visor to smirk at her, her expression a healthy mixture of jealousy and pride. _Mostly jealousy,_ he thinks, upon second look.

He dismounts, passing Betty back the spare helmet, which she puts into the storage box on the back. It’s past nine o’clock, so of course Main Street is already largely shut down and devoid of people; the humming light from the Bijou lingers overhead, his sister outlined in red, and he thinks, maybe it was for the best that they were late, so they could pull up to a lonely street.

“Cool bike,” JB says, staring at it almost greedily.

“Thanks,” Betty replies, flicking her eyes between the two of them and grinning. “I should probably get home. Um…I’ll call you later?”

“Sounds good,” he agrees, stifling the desire to kiss her goodbye. Not that he could, anyway; she’s still wearing the hefty white helmet. Not that he should, anyway.

_(Jughead Jones, valiant defeater of points.)_

And still, she hesitates. “Okay. Bye,” she says after a moment, and then kicks off and speeds away towards the south.

As soon as the engine is halfway downtown, JB spins on the spot to face him. “She is _way_ too cool for you,” she declares. “Is that why you’re keeping it a secret? She doesn’t wanna ruin her rep?”

“Good to know my sister has such a high opinion of me,” he mutters, throwing his arm around her shoulder and pulling her into his armpit. She grunts and squeals, trying to push herself back, and eventually he relaxes his grip so that his arm just hangs loosely around her. “Come on. Truck’s parked around the corner.”

.

.

.

Once they’re in the truck and buckled up and JB’s feet are up on the dashboard, she glances at him. “So what’s the deal, though? I mean, are you dating her?”

“We’re just hanging out,” he replies, not looking at her. A car passes them on the left, zooming around the truck’s clunky speed. “It’s not… Never mind. It’s casual.”

“But then why were you acting like it was such a big deal that you meet up secretly? I mean, you could’ve invited _her_ to the double feature, instead of forcing me to be your weirdo cover story. It’s not like Dad would notice if we were both supposed to be at a movie and yet I was at home.”

“He’s more observant than you think, JB,” Jughead sighs, deliberately not choosing to engage with JB’s question. Because—he’d already run that scenario. He _would’ve_ liked to take Betty to the movies; though in retrospect, tonight had gone about as well as he could’ve dreamed it. “Dad just plays dumb with himself. Don’t be fooled too.”

JB doesn’t say anything after that.

When they get home, Jughead flops backwards onto his bed and watches the light shine off his golden plastic trophies across the room. It reminds him of Betty’s hair. He carries that thought to sleep.

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.

.

The next morning, he does get a phone call, and it’s not the one he wants, nor is it one he expects.

Even though he’s already decided to beg off practice for today so he can do some more writing, he can’t break the habit of his early mornings. Possibly because he enjoys the privacy and the quiet; at seven in the morning, there’s no clinking glass down the hallway, no muffled rock music vibrating through the ceiling.

So he wakes early, his mood bright, and walks down in the kitchen, laptop in hand. Jughead is just debating his breakfast or whether just black coffee will suffice since he’s not going to power through some training later, when a ringing interrupts his thoughts.

He pivots, realizing it’s the house phone, the old one built into the wall. He lifts his coffee mug to his lips and pulls it out of the cradle. “Hello?”

There’s a long, long moment on the other end of the line. “Please don’t hang up.”

Instantly, Jughead wants to.

He doesn’t.

He does, however, slam his coffee cup down on the counter a little harder than necessary. “Oh. Hi, Mom.”

Again, Gladys Jones takes her sweet time to respond. _Scintillating,_ he thinks.

After another few ticking seconds of this, he asks, “Can I help you? JB’s not up yet.”

He can almost see her flinching over the phone. “I called to talk to you, actually. I figured you’d be up this early and hoped I could catch you before you went out to train. How’s…baseball?”

Jughead pinches at the bridge of his nose, unsure if he’s annoyed or bewildered, or probably both. _How’s baseball,_ that’s the best she could come up with in the last six months since they’ve spoken. Then again, this is entirely new territory; she’s never called specifically to talk to just him before.

(Usually, he’ll walk in on his sister on the phone with their mother, and she’s given up attempting to offer him the line. He wonders what they still talk about. JB mentions it here and there, usually acerbically—but at least they talk. Their mom has always had a softer spot for her daughter than anyone else in the family.)

“Fine. I made the National’s league. That should pan out for some scouts, I think,” he says, not caring to warm the ice in his voice.

“I know,” his mother says softly over the line. “Your sister told me. That’s great, baby.”

 _Then why did you ask?_ He wonders, repositioning the phone on the other side of his ear.

“Well—I just wanted you to know that I’m actually living in New Jersey now. And…Jellybean told me that’s where you train. I’m not too far from Rutgers.”

“It’s JB,” he corrects, for lack of an ability to absorb that information properly. “She goes by JB now.”

“Right,” Gladys says, sounding despondent. “JB. That’s what I meant, honey.” She pauses again. “So we’re having, ah—a family day, at this place I’m staying. I don’t know if the dates will align with your schedule, but I thought, maybe if you had some time, you could…come for it. If you were already nearby.”

It feels like all the breath has caught in his throat, like it somehow solidified and is currently sitting as a sentient brick in the middle of his esophagus.

A place she’s _staying_. A family day.

_Where the hell is she?_

He has an idea, but he can’t make himself say it. Instead, he blurts, “Do Dad and JB know where you are?”

Of course, there’s only really been one thing Gladys Jones has ever been good at—deflecting. Deflecting blame, deflecting conversations, deflecting guilt. “If you don’t want to come, you don’t have to, Jughead,” she replies, exhaling heavily.

He finally swallows. “I don’t know, Mom,” he says. But he can imagine the sagging, tired lines on her face through the phone. “Maybe. When?”

“Two weeks,” she says, and damn if that is when he’ll be back at training. But he has a feeling she already knew that. “The 27th. It’s a Wednesday. It’d just be for an afternoon. There’s…so much I want to talk to you about. Things I want to explain.”

He sucks his bottom lip behind his front teeth, darkly thinking that curiosity and dread feel oddly alike. “I’m there to train, Mom. You know, for my _career._ I’m not even sure if I’m allowed to leave the campus, legally.”

“Well, I am your—I could write you a note,” she tries, and Jughead doesn’t know what to make of this strange, abstract desperation in his mother’s voice. He doesn’t recognize it at all.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, unsure if he means it. “Look, I gotta go,” he adds, though he has nothing planned for the immediate future other than, perhaps, pondering the black abyss floating in his coffee mug.

“Sure,” she says, sounding a bit brighter. “Let me know if you can make it. I’ll send you the address and the time. Is…is your cell phone number still the same?”

The fact that she has to ask that at all makes him want to refuse to come right then and there. And yet.

“Yep,” he says, slowly popping the _p._ “Okay. Bye.” He’s just about to hang up when his mother coughs over the line.

“Jug?” He doesn’t say anything. “Thank you.”

“Mom, I just said I didn’t know if I could come yet,” he sighs, flattening his palm against his forehead. For however mixed his feelings are on how little he speaks to his mother, in some ways, he is grateful, because they’re always this exasperatingly circuitous.

“No,” Gladys says softly. “I just meant—thank you for thinking about it.” His eyebrows furrow. “I hope I’ll see you soon. Bye, baby.”

He gets out another quiet goodbye, and then the dial tone echoes in his ears, long after he’s put the phone, and their conversation, back in its cradle.

.

.

.

If he’d been wrestling with his appetite before that, there’s no question of it now. Jughead has always been of the eat-your-feelings variety, always eager to _consume_ before remnant thoughts consumed  _him_.

This time is no different; now it’s like his stomach is trying to claw its way out up through his throat. And to think he’d been in such a good mood this morning, still going over how well his pseudo-date with Betty had went.

Irritated, he tears through the fridge, pulling out leftover Thai, spaghetti, ice cream—anything that looks edible, he sticks a utensil in. He spends the next few hours shifting between writing a couple hundred words of frustrated nonsense in a word document and shoveling days-old food in his mouth, and none of it makes him feel better.

And despite worrying it may seem clingy, he even tries texting Betty. _Hey, my morning’s kinda been a lot already. Feel like getting a late second breakfast? It could even be back at Netherworld-Pop’s. I’ll follow your advice this time._

**_sorry, i already promised V i’d spend the day with her. but tonight, maybe? :)_ **

_Yeah, tonight’s good,_ he texts back, feeling at least somewhat relieved now, despite the eleven-AM ice cream sundae he’s currently emotionally invested in.

_**is everything okay?** _

He’s about to respond, one hand holding a spoonful of ice cream, the other his phone, when he hears someone creaking on the stairs. His sister freezes in the doorway, hair piled up and still in her pajamas.

For a long moment, they just stare at one another, her eyes bouncing from the slowly dripping spoon, the mess on the kitchen island, and back to him.

“Uh oh,” she says, and he swallows down the icy sweetness. “You’re stress eating. Did…Betty break up with you?”

He shoves another spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. “No. Mom called.”

She sucks in a breath and marches towards the kitchen island where he sits. “Oh,” she says, looking apprehensive and confused. “What’d she say?”

“Nothing,” he lies, getting up and throwing his ice cream bowl into the sink. “She wanted to talk to you. She said she’d call back, but you know her, that could be weeks.”

He probably should tell JB the truth—especially since it’s possible that she already knows where their mom is, given they talk the most out of everyone she left behind; possible that JB told her everything about his schedule, where he’d be.

But if she _doesn’t_ know—he can’t explain to her something he has to see to believe.

He buys some time washing the bowl in the sink, his back to his sister. When he turns around, JB’s head is ducked down. He’s not sure she bought it, but then again, it’d be unlike her not to press him on it if she didn’t.

At that moment, he hears the sound of the front door opening and closing. He and JB both exchange glances; Jughead’s been downstairs all morning, and unless their dad just didn’t come back last night and is only now resurfacing, he has no idea who else it could be.

But then he sees Archie striding through the foyer towards the kitchen, and the thought dissolves. He’d forgotten Archie has a key. “Hey,” Jughead greets, popping a grape from the fruit bowl into his mouth and straightening up. “What are you doing here?”

Archie shrugs as he reaches the opposite side of the kitchen island, glancing at both Jones siblings with an odd look. “I was down the hill helping Reggie move some stuff out of his parents’ garage and thought I’d make sure you weren’t, you know, dead. I haven’t heard back from you in a while.”

Jughead raises his eyebrows. Archie did text him, but only once. He just figured he was busy with Veronica. “And you didn’t try with the town crier first?”

Archie lifts yet another shoulder, clearly ignoring a reference he doesn’t get, as he’s always done. “I haven’t had you practically banging down my door to practice at the baseball diamond in days. Like I said, I just thought I should check if you were alive.” And then his eyes bulge, taking in the carnage on the kitchen island. “Dude, what—”

“We were cleaning out the fridge,” JB pipes up, swiftly moving some of the plastic take out containers towards the trash bin. Jughead throws her a grateful look. “And now I’m gonna shower the grody off me. Later,” she says, falsely chipper, and traipses out of the kitchen.

When he glances back across the island, Jughead thinks that it’s possible Archie doesn’t quite get enough credit, as he plainly doesn’t look convinced by any of that. He knows Jughead’s stress-habits about as well as his sister, after all.

But he says, “Okay,” and seems willing to drop it. “Well, I was wondering if you wanted to get lunch Pop’s.”

Even though he’s just consumed more than half the amount of daily calories his coach would approve of, Jughead nods. He feels a bit guilty about leaving JB here, but he wants nothing more than to get out of the house. “You know me, always in the mood for Pop’s,” he says, forcing himself to stand.

Archie rocks back on his heels. “Cool. My dad needed the car today, so I biked here. Can I throw it in the truck?”

He agrees, and once the bicycle has been loaded and they’re buckled in, Archie wastes no time for what Jughead suspects was the true motive in coming over.

“So are you gonna tell me what’s really up, or not?” Archie blurts, not even waiting for the truck to be backed out of the gate.

Jughead glances at him out of the corner of his eye as the last bit of driveway gravel crunches underneath the wheel. “Gosh, I hate it when you get super specific, Arch,” he replies dryly.

“Like, those were weird vibes back there. And you’ve been different ever since you got back from training. You’re not at the baseball diamond every day anymore and you’ve barely talked to me since you got back. Like, did something happen there, man?” Archie asks, and Jughead almost wants to curse the concern in his voice, because it makes him too guilty for another lie.

“No, nothing happened there,” Jughead sighs, watching as the Mantle house blurs in and out of focus. The garage is closed, and he wonders if Archie was lying about his excuses too. “I didn’t mean to disappear. I just…I’ve had other things on my mind.”

“You mean like Betty?” Archie asks, grinning. “Actually, I was thinking about that. What if we did a double date thing?”

Jughead nearly loses his grip on the wheel. “No,” he says flatly.

“Jug, no offense, but I think I know a little bit more about this stuff than you,” Archie says, twisting in his seat to face him better. “Look man, all we have to do is like… _conveniently_ run into Betty when she’s with Veronica. And then it’s just already happening.”

“I’m grateful for the sentiment, I am, but I don’t think I need your help with Betty,” Jughead replies, blowing out a breath. “And I definitely don’t want Veronica involved in any reconnaissance missions. I’m not _completely_ hapless.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Archie says, flopping back against his seat. “Think of it as baseball practice. Like, you’re training, and you just need a warm up.”

At this point, despite appreciating what is his best friend’s possibly fifth metaphor usage, ever, Jughead is practically bursting with the truth. But—he’d made a promise to Betty that this would just stay between them. And it would be throwing said promise to a wolf in pearls if he agreed to Archie’s strategy.

“Well—thanks, but I’m making an executive decision to just see what happens on its own,” Jughead says, suppressing a small smile.

Archie makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and looks at his phone for the rest of the drive to Pop’s.

It’s only when they park and walk through the diner door that Jughead realizes why.

Almost at once, he nearly stumbles straight into Veronica, who seems to have been already be gliding her way towards them.

“Oh look, Arch, it’s The Girl With The Pearl Earring,” he sighs dully, glancing over the top of Veronica’s head to see Betty in a booth near the back. She offers him an awkward half-wave.

He sighs. It’s so transparent—and yet, he can’t really be mad, not if he gets more time with Betty already. Jughead flicks his eyes back to Veronica, who is positively beaming. “And who would’ve thunk we’d run into you.”

“We just saw you pull up in the parking lot. Far be it from me to deny a hello to my favorite flavor of ginger ale,” Veronica hastily explains, embracing Archie, and Jughead plainly thinks _yeah, right._

Rather than stick around for either of their smug grins or worse, tongue wars, he marches towards Betty, hands in his pockets. “Don’t panic, but I believe we’re the targets of deep state espionage,” he mutters, sliding into the seat besides her.

“I think it’s funny,” Betty says softly, checking around as if to make sure the two are still canoodling by the entrance. “And sweet, at least. Was Archie any more subtle than Veronica was?”

“Oh, Archie knows better than to try that tactic, given what a crap liar he is. He just straight up told me he had a plan and then withheld the fact that it was already in motion,” Jughead replies, shaking his head.

She smiles, but it’s dim. “Hey, you never replied to my text earlier. Is everything okay?”

“Ah, that. I’ll…tell you about it later,” he says vaguely, and decides not to read into the look she gives him. He can’t tell if she’s worried, or disappointed, and he wouldn’t know what to do with either of them. He jerks his thumb back at Archie and Veronica, hidden from them by the booth. “So, how are we playing this?”

“Begrudging and innocent,” she suggests, after a long, studious moment. “I mean, we all hung out on the Fourth, so they already know we don’t hate each other,” she adds.

“No, we don’t hate each other,” he repeats slowly, his gaze trailing across her own.

“This is such a crazy coincidence, don’t you think?” Veronica asks breezily, interrupting the moment as she slides into a seat opposite them. He narrows his eyes. Frankly, he’d expected a little more tact from a city girl, but then again, given her bright, sparkling look, maybe Veronica just knows when to show her hand.

“Yeah, crazy,” Jughead echoes blankly. “Of all the gin joints, right?”

Veronica just smiles coquettishly at him, unfolding her napkin and placing it delicately in her lap.

Under the table, Betty nudges his leg with her own, as if silently urging him to play along. She doesn’t move it back, and he revels in the warmth, even through both their jeans.

A moment later, Pop materializes at the end of their table, all smiles and clearly the polar opposite from Darla last night. Archie orders a breakfast burrito, Veronica a cappuccino and yogurt, Betty asks for sunny-side-up eggs, and when it comes to Jughead, he spares a single glance at the girl sitting next to him and baldly says, “One burger, my good man. Your best one.”

“Think that’s a given, Jug,” Pop replies easily.

“You’d be surprised,” he says, and Betty lets out a sharp laugh that she fails miserably at hiding behind her hand.

Pop eyes the pair of them, and then goes. Veronica raises two perfectly arched eyebrows, and Archie blinks at them both. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Betty replies, as Jughead attempts to disguise his own chuckle into a cough.

She kicks him playfully under the table, but when he glances back over, she’s still grinning.

.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: [stand by me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hwZNL7QVJjE) by ben e. king, [i only have eyes for you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wnI_N5wBvkU) by kevin morby, [don't think twice it's alright](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xu-DWUngjhk)by peter, paul, and mary for some gladys feels, and [saturdays](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=igKnS0b7Fhc) by twin shadow/haim.
> 
> ♫ hellooooo ♫ it's me ♫
> 
> i am SO SORRY it's been so long since my last update. my work was really crazy for all of may, and then i was traveling for all of june, and things just got away from me. 
> 
> so, as i was writing this chapter, i came to a conclusion. namely, that this story WILL jump up in the chapter count soon. i have to restructure the whole back end of my outlines because i previously made room for a slower burn, more family exploration, and more bughead sweetness. and once i do that, i'll figure out how long this story will actually be, lmao. 
> 
> (just goes to show---you can be a neurotic planner and still need to switch gears halfway)
> 
> also---gladys is coming into the story. not just because it's clear we'll be getting some of her in s3 and i wanted to get my take of her in this universe in before that, but also because i feel like there have been a lot of jug/FP explorations already, and not a lot with his mother. for tangential reasons that will later be clear, that's been on my mind lately. 
> 
> i still have a lot of meaty stuff with FP planned, but...thought we'd do something different, since this universe already is so. 
> 
> and we got a lot of bughead this chapter! i know that's what a lot of you have been wanting. i promise, that's ramping up even more. but i also really wanted to play to those fluttery feelings of young love, and how fucking _nervous_ said feelings can really make you. so often, stories dead-drop into endless banter, but i kind of wanted to give them that, and then take it away. and then give it back.
> 
> so there's a lot of stuff coming up, including a lot more polly and betty, toni and cheryl, jughead and his parents, etc. and of course, more betty and jug and the way they find themselves through each other. that's important to me, and something betty will be reflecting on soon. 
> 
> anyway now that it's been another 1k words of rambling here, i would really, really appreciate a review if you can. getting back into the swing of this universe was a bit difficult and i've been anxious about it, so please let me know what you thought. 
> 
> when i was struggling with this chapter (and begrudgingly accepting it wouldn't be as long as my usual), i'd get a random or stray review or reread the ones from 11, and they'd really help.
> 
> much love. hope you enjoyed this and i hope my updates will be a lot swifter soon!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a quick heads up, there is discussion of abortion & themes of it.

Betty Cooper does the first thing she swore she wouldn’t: she gets used to him.

By quote-unquote dates two and three, they’ve taken to texting throughout the day, to the point where she’s had to put her phone on do-not-disturb to quell the curious looks that were coming with the incessant buzzing of her phone.

(She’s not sure if _dates_ are an appropriate label. _They’re hanging out,_ she wants to qualify, to no one but the air. _Hanging out and making out, really._ But since they’re keeping it quiet, there’s only herself to correct, and, well, that makes it harder.)

By “date four” and just over two weeks in to whatever they’ve started, she sees him every day, whether she intends to or not.

She quickly learns one of the side effects to being Veronica Lodge’s friend are the often run-ins with Archie, who appears to happily vacillate between Veronica’s willing Sherpa to her new boyfriend. And where Archie tends to go, Jughead also tends to materialize, often right out of the shadows, always acknowledging her with that slight nod by way of his chin, the half-second rise of his eyebrows.

If she’s being honest with herself, the idea of secrecy had felt a little inconceivable at the gate, but as they settle themselves as the back wheels of the Archie-Veronica racecar, it’s oddly easy. Veronica and Archie are easily distracted by each other, and more often than not, she feels like a chaperone. But she doesn’t mind. It’s a good excuse to get out of the house, and a better excuse to see Jughead.

Part of her thinks Veronica has glommed on already particularly in the moments where she turns those perennially arched eyebrows her way, but—she also suspects there would be a merciless amount of falsely polite prodding about it if she actually  _had_ figured it out, and either way is glad that Veronica doesn’t ask.

So she acts surprised to see him every time, and it’s strangely fun. Like playing a game of hide and seek with herself, feeling like a child hiding among the coats and giggling when the seeker runs in the other direction. It’s a diversion with herself, and the possibility of being caught is part of the thrill, she supposes.

But it’s also plain old strange, the more times she has to pretend that she doesn’t know the boys are joining them at Pop’s, or the time she feigns huffiness at the Bijou and Jughead passes her a secret smirk, just for her.

Still. Summer stretches on, and like the heat, she gets used to it. She stops asking herself about the risks.

.

.

.

“I don’t like this.”

“Hush.”

“Honest to fucking god, Archie, if this is how I die, I’m gonna kill you.”

Veronica turns around in the front seat, looking at Archie sharply. “Does he have a muzzle option?”

Archie exhales. “Jug—”

“I’m just saying. If I’m going to go out in a fiery wreck, I just want it to be nobler than this. I don’t want to die in an old Denny’s parking lot, that’s just pathetic,” Jughead continues lazily, angling his body against his seat. “And isn’t this illegal?” Betty throws him a scolding look from the front as well, one he acknowledges briefly before flicking his eyes away.

“Betty, you’ve seen Thelma and Louise, right?” Veronica asks in lieu of responding to Jughead, her teeth slightly gritted. “Two women, sick of the men the world, that were ultimately driven to the point of—”

“Okay,” Betty interrupts, splaying her hands onto the dashboard in front of her. “Jughead, shut up, you’re going to make her more nervous. If you’re not going to be supportive, you can just get out of the car.”

Huffing, he readjusts in his seat, but plainly holds his tongue. Archie throws Betty a surprised kind of look—a bit awed, but mostly suspicious. She’s not sure what to make of shrewdness on the normally puppy-ish face of Archie Andrews, so she just turns away, back to face Veronica.

Perfectly manicured hands curl and re-curl themselves over the wheel of the Mercedes. “I have had lessons, of course,” she says, though it’s much more to herself. “Smithers had me practice along a country road once. And I took the written test. And I had an instructor, for a bit.”

The ominous ring of “an instructor, for a bit” doesn’t go unnoticed by Jughead, whom Betty sees forming another snippy comment about Veronica’s driving. Before he can get it out and the two of them start off on each other again, Betty decides to jump in. “Let’s just get started. Veronica, take off the emergency brake.”

Dutifully, she reaches for the handle, but the car cricks and then lurches slightly as Veronica seems to accidentally press the pedal of the gas at the same time. The engine whirls angrily, still stuck in park.

“Alright, I’m getting out,” Jughead announces, dramatically unbuckling his seatbelt.

“Dude, I think you’re safer _in_ the car,” Betty hears Archie mumble under his breath. A moment later, Jughead’s seatbelt quietly clicks back into place.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Veronica repeats, readjusting her hair. “Veronica Lodge does not fluster easily. My heel slipped, that’s all.”

“It’s really okay,” Betty says reassuringly. It’s hot in the black leather interior of the car, no matter how new and fancy the air conditioning likely is. She bats at her brow; it’s been a long summer of nothing but heat waves. “This is how I learned to drive too. My sister took me into a parking lot and helped me master the basics. You definitely want to have some practice before you actually take the permit test.”

For all Veronica’s bravado, she does flash Betty a softer, appreciative smile. “And I appreciate it, B. Especially since you’re the only one _actually_ helping. What next?”

“Slowly, take the car out of park,” Betty instructs, watching as Veronica does so. “And gently press on the brake—gently, gently!”

The car had jerked forward a few spaces in the parking lot on the word gently, almost out of spite, and all three of the passengers snap back against their seat belts. Betty distinctly hears a _fuck_ from the backseat.

“Sorry,” Veronica huffs. “Ugh. I lived in New York City for over seventeen years, how hard can driving be?”

On the next try, she follows Betty’s orders more literally, and the Mercedes inches a few feet forward, this time under much more control.

“Good,” Betty breathes. “And this is a sportier car than most, so the engine is a bit more touch sensitive. You’re doing great,” she includes, feeling Veronica is the type of pupil to perform better under praise than under criticism. This proves to be true, as Veronica preens a little and upon second attempt, does much better.

After a few more minutes of testing the gas and brake pedals, Veronica has graduated to a solid loop around a small square of parking lot, only occasionally accelerating more than where she should. Eventually, she masters the careful turn, managing a few figure eights between lampposts. And if Betty takes a little joy in the whimper from the back when she instructs Veronica a little closer to where Jughead has parked his own truck, she won’t admit it.

About forty minutes of practice, Betty starts to direct Veronica towards the edge of the lot. “Okay, head towards that back lane.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Jughead interjects, sitting forward in his seat. “You promised we were just sticking to the parking lot.”

“Relax, it’s just a little frontage road. It leads around the Denny’s and to the roller rink lot, so it’ll be empty too. It’s _good_ to practice more than turns, you know.”

“How do you know it’ll be empty?” Archie asks, as the Mercedes crawls towards the ivy-strewn back lane around the side of the Denny’s.

Betty sighs. “Because I used to work there.”

Although Veronica’s car could easily be outpaced on foot, they do eventually make it down the frontage road, where the old roller disco sits, looking pitiful and abandoned. As she supposes it is—Betty hasn’t been in here in what feels like months and months, though it’s only been weeks. The S in the DISCO sign is still flickering on, like someone forgot to turn the sign off before they left, permitting the bulbs to die out on their own. It’s not a surprise, really; those neon signs always ate through the electric bill faster than anything else.

She exhales again. The Mercedes pulls to a stop in front of the building, and Veronica puts it in park, this time perfectly. “Let’s take a break,” Betty suggests, and they all climb out of the car. “Good job, V. Really,” she adds, meaning it. All things considered in the late start Veronica has gotten on her own vehicular independence, she _has_ rapidly improved in just today. 

“I did do a good job, didn’t I?” Veronica says, half-mocking of herself. She presses a hand to her collarbone and says, airily, “I always knew my problems could never be so pedestrian.”

Even Jughead can’t stop his amused snort. “Good one,” he says, and then his attention drops back to Betty. “What’s up?” He asks, as if noticing she hasn’t taken her eyes off the old roller disco since they got out of the car.

“Nothing,” she says vacantly, trying to banish her thoughts. She puts her hands on her hips and turns back to them, feeling a mischievous energy wash over her. “Wanna go in?”

“How?” Archie asks, eyebrows wrinkling. “There’s a big fat lock on the door.”

Betty just lifts her lips in response, and swipes a bobby pin out of her ponytail, which she puts between her teeth before marching towards the locked doors. Once there, she drops to her knees, removing the bobby pin and siphoning it into the padlock. She fiddles with it until she hears the telltale _click,_ and then she pulls the lock down with a satisfied feeling.

“Damn, girl,” Veronica says appreciatively from behind her. “Do I want to know how you can do that?”

If anyone asked her that, she’d glare. But it’s Veronica, so she just grins. “I read a lot of Nancy Drew growing up,” Betty replies, which is, technically, the truth. And if her sister’s friends also occasionally outsourced her particular propensity for lock picking, there’s no point in mentioning it now. “Come on.”

She pulls the doors open with a strange, nostalgic familiarity, and tries not to think about the pang at her chest. The big windows have already been boarded up, most likely because of (or in prevention of) a break in, but the rest are too high and small for anyone to wriggle through, and have been left alone. Though clouded from dust, they allow a bit of light to streak through the rink floor, the effect being a hazy shroud. It’s much colder inside too, the darkness having allowed some cool air to gather.

It’s—odd. Even when she was working here weekly, the roller disco had always felt like a place out of time—now it feels bursting at the seams of it. It almost seems like she’s suddenly woken to the world post-apocalypse; the beige sheen from the dirt, broken glass by the base of a now boarded window, and the light beams swirl with little clouds of dust all paint a picture of a place utterly forgotten.

And yet, it also feels strikingly comforting to be back in the space, proverbial tumbleweeds and all. Beyond the fresh layer of grime, everything else looks the same, especially when she crosses the floor to throw on the lights, which flicker patiently at her behest. The pink light over the center of rink throws the room into warmth.

“Wow, this place has barely changed at all,” Archie muses, and Betty realizes she’s forgotten she’s not alone. She’d almost been about to break for the front desk and start counting the drawer and spraying the shoes out of habit. “Reggie had a few parties here. I did too once,” he adds to Betty, as if this lends him some credit.

“I remember that one,” Jughead says from beside him, chuckling. “You were terrible at it, man.”

“Yeah, well,” is all Archie says, his eyes trailing over the walls. A yellowed poster Betty is convinced is really from the 70s proudly reads DON’T BE A SQUARE, CIRCLE THE RINK!

Meanwhile, Veronica’s hands are clasped together, her expression pinched as she pivots slightly in the middle of the rink. At first, Betty thinks she’s disgusted by the space or being judgmental, but on second glance, she realizes it’s a surveying, eagle-eyed kind of look, one that speaks to something far more businesslike than condescension.

“Why did the rink close?” She asks, readjusting the boxy purse that rests in the crook of her elbow.

Betty shrugs. “It was kind of a money pit, I guess. And mismanaged. A laser tag place opened on the north side a few years ago, and we just never fully bounced back. Parents would rather not take their kids to this side of town if given the option. That’s what happened to the Denny’s.”

“No, Denny’s couldn’t compete with Pop’s. They thought a chain could come in and undercut him and get away with it,” Jughead replies, tipping his chin up to study the ceiling. “But this town is more loyal than that. And this place isn’t far from Pop’s, anyway, so is there really that big a difference?”

It’s a question that she has an instinctually defensive reaction to, but realizes Jughead is being genuine. She feels herself soften a bit, but somewhere between their shared looks, he seems to read her mind. She recalls their conversation back on the Ferris wheel, and wonders if they’re thinking the same thing.

“Well, it’s a shame,” Veronica says.

“It is,” Betty agrees sadly. “This place was half-falling down the whole time, but I liked working here. And it was kind of…besides Pop’s, the one place we had that was for everyone. You know like, you had parties here Archie, and so did my friends. I have a lot of good memories of this rink.”

As she says it, she understands why she’s felt so defeated and stubborn about the rink all at once. On the one hand, it feels like it was just another pawn in the slow death of the south side, and on the other, it felt like it was always above that; a place where people came together, not felt divided. It was central, somehow, despite the literal geography.

Anger and frustration prickles at her skin like gooseflesh, and she remembers why she’s tried so hard to forget about the rink in recent weeks.

“I wanted to save it,” Betty hears herself saying, feeling defensively defiant. She thought about it a lot, in the days following the closure. But she also thought about the reactions she’d get, trying to save this kind of place; what her parents would say, what her sister would say, what her friends would say. How everyone would try to talk her out of it, tell her it was pointless.

Maybe if she had grown up somewhere shinier and prettier, she wouldn’t feel so boxed in. Or feel like she had the right or the obligation to get her way; if she was just a nice girl who was used to pushily smiling her way to things. She can’t tell if that’s the person she wants to be or the person she should be, but she feels them, whoever they are, swimming closer to the surface.

 _Fight for it,_ she thinks. “But it just felt endlessly uphill for something that people just don’t care about anymore,” she says. It comes out feeling like sand on her tongue.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Jughead says, folding his arms and looking at her hard. “People care. I care. Like you said, this place had something for everyone.”

She flushes at _I care,_ and turns away. It sounded strangely direct, and that’s against their unspoken rules. She liked hearing it but feels annoyed all the same, though she’s not sure with whom.

In the process of turning away, however, she catches Archie’s eye again, and thinks it may not be Veronica she has to worry about figuring it out. Rather than let that thought fester, she walks towards the counter, and lifts up the hidden door. The skates are still on the shelves, still even in size order. She was probably the last one to organize them, looking at them now.

Aware she has three sets of eyes on her, Betty rummages through the front desk until she finds her favorite stack of records. She blows the dust off the first vinyl in the pile, and sets it into place on the player. She flicks the overhead speaker, which buzzes slightly at her touch, and then sets the needle onto the groove of the record.

At that, the music fills the rink, the bouncy chords doing their best to not sound like a vacant echo against the emptiness of the space. She’s a little surprised anything still works, but she had suggested her boss pay the power bills in monthly installments, as they both knew he was prone to mismanaging the money otherwise. Betty supposes he’d actually listened. She wonders for how much longer the lights will work.

Betty pulls a pair of skates in her size down from the rack. “Anyone up for a last ride?”

.

.

.

As it turns out, almost predictably, Veronica is the only one with any skill in the field of roller disco. She credits it to years of figure skating lessons, and promptly takes up the role as Archie’s personal teacher—which mostly translates to holding hands as Archie wobbles on maladroit ankles around the rink.

Jughead has a little more grace, but not much. She thinks this might be a good excuse to touch him in front of their friends, but she’s not sure how he’d feel about it. Probably wouldn’t protest it. Betty can guess Jughead is interested in more from her, mostly based on the way he likes to steal kisses around corners or press his hand into the small of her back when he can.

But he wants that _now_. Who knows what he’ll want later, when school starts again and the rules change. And she’s trying not to think about risks, she reminds herself.

So they just skate side-by-side, still pretending to be mutual third wheels. She has to deliberately slow down to let him keep up with her, but she doesn’t mind.

“Is he really that clumsy, or is he laying it on for her?” Betty asks lowly, grinning as Archie nearly falls onto his back but for the grip of Veronica.

“He is really that clumsy,” Jughead replies, his smirk full of mirth. “You’d expect better of him, but he’s genuinely always been this way. I once watched him trip on a carpet and wipe out a whole board game of Monopoly in one fell swoop. I’m not fully convinced that one wasn’t on purpose though—he was losing heavily. But still. I don’t think he’s capable of being Machiavellian. Or coordinated.”

“But he’s a football player,” Betty says.

“Yeah, and they’re not really known for being light on their feet,” he says, nudging her with his shoulder. The motion also throws him off balance, and he bobs in his skates until Betty reaches out and steadies his arm. “Baseball players aren’t either, by the way.”

“You’re doing okay.” Her voice is soft, even to her own ears, and she smiles up at him. He returns it, she feels a little flutter in her stomach, and wants to seize that feeling before it drops. She twists in a perfect circle, facing Veronica and Archie in the center of the rink. “I’m gonna show Jughead where the bathroom is! We’ll be right back.”

Both barely seem to be listening, and so Betty does a little figure eight around the stilled Jughead, throwing him a pair of raised, implicit eyebrows, and then skates off towards the exit. He ambles after her, eyes half rolling. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he murmurs when he finally catches up to her.

The thrill is beyond worth it as soon as they round the nearest corner, and Jughead practically stumbles into her lips first. But then his skates slip forward in a way that feels purposeful, using them to push them both against a wall, and she wonders if he’d known what he was doing too.

He kisses her fully to the tune of a crackly background disco, and she smiles against his mouth, reveling in the moment. Pink light flashes both behind her eyes and the room beyond them, and she’s not sure which came first, but then her whole body _feels_ pink as his hands grip into her hips, kissing her harder.

They haven’t talked about—about anything further yet, although she’s feeling increasingly like he might not be the wrong person to…talk to about it. Still, she can barely _think_ it without blushing, so—maybe not yet. But while he’s kissing her like this and there’s the grip of his hands underneath the hem of her shirt, it’s hard not to.

They break a moment later, knowing they don’t have long before it’s suspicious. “I’ve wanted to do that all day,” he whispers. “Genuinely thought I might not get to because I was going to die at Veronica’s hands.”

“If you kept talking she might’ve, and not with the car,” she whispers back. “Worth the wait, at least,” she adds, and he smiles, though through a heavy exhale. She rests her arms over his shoulders and beams at him, just wanting this moment and this moment alone. She feels giddy and free. “We can do something tonight. Maybe go see a movie in Greendale. They’re having a horror marathon.”

“Right up my alley,” he agrees, grinning goofily at her. And then he sighs again, which she’s not even sure he hears himself doing. “Hey, so—I have training again next week, by the way. Just as a heads up.”

“Oh.” She hates the twist in her gut that accompanies the word—this was part of the package before she even met him. She’s not that girl. But he doesn’t look thrilled either; in fact, he’s been looking increasingly distracted every time the subject of baseball comes up.

“It’ll be fine. It’s just a few days,” he says, though to whom, she doesn’t know. “Hey, I do actually have to pee,” he adds a moment later, with a tighter smile this time.

She removes her arms from his shoulders. “It’s down the hall,” she murmurs, and he pushes back from the wall, moving slowly on the carpet towards the back bathrooms.

Betty glances around, noticing the music has stopped, so she totters back to the counter and stretches over it to flip the album. When she’s finished and has righted herself and the B-side has started rolling, she sees Archie leaning up against the other end of the red Formica.

He raises his eyebrows at her. “Bathroom, huh?”

She stares back at him—he probably has figured it out, then. Betty presses one hand onto the counter and gives it her weight, trying to keep her expression cool. “Yeah. He’s in there now, if you really want to go investigate.”

Archie holds up his hands in a mock-surrender kind of gesture. “Look, he hasn’t told me anything.”

She thinks about saying there isn’t anything to tell—but it’s one thing to withhold the truth, and it’s another to lie. And she can’t quite make herself do the latter right now.

He takes her silence as a cue to go on. But his voice is quieter, more measured. “I just don’t want you to hurt him, okay?”

“Me? Hurt _him?”_ She repeats, not quite swallowing the scoff.

Tone and implication not lost on him, Archie reaches up and ruffles his hair, evidently uncomfortable and looking like he regrets saying anything at all. “You don’t get it.”

“Enlighten me, then,” she replies, feeling the eerie chillness of defense in her bones again. She tries to will it away, but—Archie is the one who doesn’t _get it._ These…rules, the secrecy— _this_ is the only way she gets to control the outcome, and it doesn’t end with her in some dumb video being passed around by a bunch of random jocks; doesn’t end with her just like her sister: bitter and humiliated.

His eyebrows nestle together. Archie appears to be wrestling with his words. Then, “I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says. “You just—you don’t know what he’s been through, okay?”

And although his exit is anything but poignant, given he stumbles away on wobbly skates, even on carpet, the words sting even after he’s gone. And they continue to sting, even after Jughead returns from the bathroom and the four of them give the rink another solid hour of their attention, and later sit in the hot back bed of Jughead’s truck drinking milkshakes and talking about nothing, plying away an otherwise dull and stretched summer afternoon with a wholesomeness that she didn’t think herself capable of.

But all day, it nags at her. He catches her watching him a few times, puzzlement and appreciation mingling in his expression whenever it happens. She doesn’t know what riddle she expects to crack with others around them—is pretty sure she wouldn’t have the right to, even in private, not with how they stand now.

Still, however, the girlish detective within her rears its ugly head, and it won’t let her go now that it’s been fed a morsel. Half-distracted by the heat, Betty retraces all their conversations throughout the day, looking for a cryptic clue that would point her towards the meaning. She thinks to the moment they met. He was literally in a cage. A batting cage, but—gildings can be literal.

That’s always, partially, if she’s being honest with herself, been part of the attraction. They understood each other’s trappings, at least in concept. Is that what Archie meant? Does it have to do with baseball, and the way Jughead has lately been seeking to change the subject whenever it comes up?

Maybe, but instinct tells her it’s more than that.

In the back of the truck, Veronica is telling Archie about the East Village, all about the music there. A cloud moves away from the sun, and Jughead shields the sudden light over his eyes. He grins at her, which does little to interrupt her thoughts.

Archie is right, and the realization makes her profoundly sadder than she thought it would. She really doesn’t know much about Jughead at all.

.

.

.

Betty does her best to push the thought down, remind herself that she wanted him at arms length, that she did so by design. But their hands brush that night, as they walk from his car to the old Greendale Paramount movie theater, and before she can think better of it, she reaches for his fingers, letting them entwine like vines on a fence.

He cannot mask the surprise on his face, nor the smile, and neither say anything as they head towards the beckoning red neon of the theater.

The Greendale theater isn’t any better than the Bijou, but they’re playing Night of the Living Dead, and it just feels spookier on the old screen here. This town always feels about ten degrees colder somehow, inching faster towards autumn, and has an indescribable but brimming energy. The scary movie just feels more effective across the river.

On the walk back to the car, they stop in a funny Halloween-themed bookstore and discuss the merits of effective camp. Betty thinks the place is a bit much and so is camp, but Jughead disagrees with her so passionately that it makes her smile. What about Nancy Drew, he argues knowingly, and she sees his point; a mystery makes agency.

They leave after one last perusal of the comic book section, and continue down Greendale’s main drag. While one of Jughead’s hands is wrapped around their leftover popcorn, the other reaches for her own. She takes it, and then hears those tinkling words again.

“So,” she says, before she can think otherwise. It’s just been bothering her too much to not say it. “Are you looking forward to going back to training? We haven’t talked much about that stuff.”

Betty feels him stiffen a bit. “I don’t know, there’s not much to say if you don’t care about sports. Which I thought you didn’t,” he replies, throwing her a taught grin.

She lets go of his hand in order to strike a mocking cheerleader’s gesture. “What, you can’t see me at the big game in a little flippy skirt, cheering on the home team?”

He faces her, skeptically eying her black choker and jacket, but there’s an appreciative gleam in his eye too, like he’s picturing it. “But seriously,” she continues, wrapping her arms around one of his. “You can talk to me about it. If it’s bothering you. Or I don’t know, about…like, what you’ve been through. I don’t know much about your family.”

It’s clumsily phrased, but still the opening that she thought he’d been waiting for.

Betty doesn’t think of herself as a naïve person. She’s not foolish—in fact, she goes pretty out of her way to not be. There have been suffered fools in her world that she’s always tried to study herself away from that. It was the point of not joining the Serpents, of not goading her parents into a battle, of not going into things with Jughead without some rules.

Still. She’d thought—genuinely, thought—he’d wanted more from her, that it was maybe what they were working towards silently. She hears the language of his hands on her body, and sees the way he looks at her sometimes. Thinks about the way Archie looked at them too—it’d been embarrassing at first, but now it just felt like confirmation of something she didn’t allow herself to enjoy thinking about.

It was a fantasy she refused to indulge, but there’s a part of her that had already started wondering if they could be something a little more than a summer hookup. Silly visions of him picking her up in the truck outside of Southside, them taking a trip to the city to look at schools—the pretty life of someone else, she knows, but had still allowed entry.

She certainly feels foolish now. Jughead’s expression darkens at the words, caught off guard. He stops walking, and his voice is harsh, “What I’ve been through? What the hell does that mean?”

Her mouth opens and closes, and then feels her own chest stone over. Is this how it snapped between Jason and Polly, too? She poked him a little too hard after they’d already chosen their secrets, and he pushed back? Was it sudden, the way this feels? Like a door slamming in her face?

Excuses bubble at her throat, all the things she could say to salvage the moment or justify the question. _Archie said— I only meant— You’ve never mentioned your mom—_

But she doesn’t say any of that. Defiant though she’s been feeling of late, it dies at her own hypocrisy. Archie had been right, but Betty had been right too, she decides in that moment. A confirmation she hates to get, but the one she’s been waiting for. This thing between them—it should just stay the way it is now. Pushing it further, making it realer—isn’t what it was meant for.

A fling is like summer itself; hot and openly limited. Betty tells herself that’s why such things must be this way.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” she replies quietly. “Sorry. Forget it.”

Maybe regret swims in the half-moon of his face, but she’s sure it’s just a trick of the light. It tends to do that.

 

.

.

.

.

She decides to spend the night at her dad’s, mostly because the thought of asking Jughead to drop her on the south side makes her want to die a little. This whole thing started north compassed, it might as well stay that way. Her bike is there anyway, Betty having determined she didn’t need to meet him in more clandestine ways if Archie already knew about them.

It’s an awkward drive back across the river bridge, both seemingly deciding to pretend the conversation had never happened. But it flickers in the air between them, the thing she dared to ask and the answer he obviously hadn’t wanted to give.

She’d told him about Polly, about her parents; Betty only realized it when they pulled up to the white house on Elm. And so attached to not being attached, she hadn’t thought about him not telling her anything about himself in return. She had snippets, sure, but that was before they were anything. But now she understands that for all the guilt she’d felt about being sometimes cold with him, it was a tango.

He’d agreed to the bargain because it’s what he’d actually wanted, and she’d been the one to cross the line.

 _Dramatic irony,_ she thinks to herself. “Well, goodnight,” is what she says aloud, reaching for the door handle.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” he says, flashing a quick smile. He instinctually seems to move for a kiss, but then takes it back. He pauses. “Sorry about tonight. If that was weird. I just—”

“It wasn’t weird,” Betty interrupts, sighing. She means it and wants this conversation to be over before it feels worse. “I shouldn’t have asked. That wasn’t part of what we talked about. It wasn’t on the table. It’s okay.”

Jughead stares blankly back at her, and then nods to himself. “Right,” he agrees.

“Goodnight,” she says again, and then slips out the passenger door. She’s not angry with him, but she does feel like she might’ve lost something she didn’t know she had.

The air is kissed cool on her cheeks as she walks up the front steps, not like she left it this afternoon. She guesses the heat wave finally broke.

.

.

.

The next morning, Betty makes light conversation with her father over coffee. They talk about the roller rink, and she is surprised when he mentions that he’d thought about doing an article about its closure.

She had figured Hal Cooper had been the exact kind of person to despise the rink, but his tone was genuine and disappointed, and she wondered if _he_ could be won over, who else could be.

That could give her something else to think about, at least. It’s hard for Betty to describe, but she feels lately like all the things she just accepted before, all the ways she bent herself to make everyone happy—the idea of doing it more just makes her exhausted. And it makes her angry. Who is she working so hard to please anyway? Toni and the other Serpents have been MIA from her life in recent weeks, her parents are placated, Jughead drew his own line in the sand, and her sister—well. That one is hard to say.

All the same—she hears herself changing in the things she says, and wonders if that transformation is working within her, too.

She kills the engine of the bike in front of her mother’s house. As she takes off her helmet, Betty glances over and sees that, sitting on the short stoop of her mother’s yellow house, is her sister, head bowed nearly between her knees. There’s a duffle bag at her feet, and she glances up when the motorcycle engine slowly rumbles off. Even at a distance, she can tell something is wrong.

Polly wipes at her cheek as Betty approaches. “I was hoping you’d come home first. Before Mom.”

She crouches down in front of her sister and slowly takes her hand. She hasn’t spoken to Polly since their blowout in their father’s driveway, but in this moment, none of that matters. “What’s wrong, Pol?”

Her responding smile is watery. “I’ve been so stupid, Betty,” she says slowly, and then throws her head back to take a large breath. “I came over to get some things for my new place and—and I’ve just been sitting here since.” Polly reaches down into the duffle bag and pulls out her old, ratty teddy bear, which she rests on her knee. Betty stares at it curiously, and then looks up at Polly, whose eyes swim deep blue. “I found this stupid thing in the back of my closet and lost it.”

“You don’t _have_ to move out, Polly,” Betty says, moving to sit beside her sister on the stoop now. “You’re only eighteen. I know you and Mom have been fighting—”

“I thought I could go by myself,” her sister interrupts. She stares harder at the stuffed bear. “And then I couldn’t. So I waited until I could. And now I’ve almost waited too long. If I don’t go this week, I can’t go at all.”

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say,” Betty says softly, which perhaps is a kinder way of phrasing the truth, which is that Polly is starting to scare her.

Polly pushes her tongue inside her cheek, and then glances off again. “I need you to come with me to Planned Parenthood.”

She blinks.

Oh.

_Oh._

It’s not so much a bucket of ice water or any weighted cliche, but it does suddenly throw everything into focus; the last few months have been a particular roller coaster with her sister, and she had chalked it up to just Jason and what happened. But that hadn’t felt like a real answer, and Betty had known that. And now she has it. 

Betty looks at her sister for a very long moment. She doesn’t see tough, partying, bad girl Polly Cooper, always so fortressed in leather. Instead, she appears now like the girl Betty only knows in a memory, fragile and whimpering in a ruffled blue party dress. She looks—

 _Unstable_ is the word their mother liked to use when Polly was being dramatic or flighty—which was often, truthfully—and sometimes Betty saw it too. Saw it too easily in her own mirror; that vague, mutable, humming force under the skin that pushed her thoughts into a darker tide.

But in this moment, she’s hates her forcefully mother for putting the word upon either of them. It’s not instability. It’s just fear. It was always just fear. 

Her thoughts carry just a moment too long, and Polly looks even closer to tears.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” Polly whimpers.

“No, no,” Betty says quickly, snapping out of the moment. She holds Polly’s hand tighter. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to look— Yes, of course I’ll go with you. Of course, Pol. We can go on my bike, okay?”

Polly shakes her head in short, rapid succession. “No, I don’t think I can hold onto anything right now. I just need to sit, but I can’t stand the idea of riding the bus all the way to Centerville. You can hotwire Mom’s car, right?”

Despite herself, Betty laughs breathily. “I could,” she says, getting to her feet. “Or I could just get the spare car keys out of her hiding place.”

Her sister laughs as well, and then sniffles. She rubs at her nose. “Oh. That could work too, I guess.”

“Are you gonna be okay for a minute while I go inside?” Betty asks, and Polly finally looks a bit like her usual self, summoning a hard, unamused look that clearly says _give me a little credit._ “I’ll be right back.”

Betty wastes little time in grabbing the keys out of the bottom of the fruit bowl, under the oranges, and running back to her sister. Polly grabs the half-packed duffle bag at the base of the steps as Betty manually rolls up the garage door. They get into the old station wagon, pull into the driveway, Betty gets out to re-close it, and then they’re off.

She glances over a few the times as soon as they’re on the highway. Polly is rubbing the ear of the teddy bear between her forefinger and thumb absently, looking lost for thought.

“I wasn’t lying about looking out for you, Betty,” Polly says, out of nowhere. Betty blinks over in surprise, her brain still trying to stitch together what’s happening, where they’re going now. She forces her eyes back on the road.

“Alright,” is all she can say. Now doesn’t seem like the time to air more dirty laundry; Polly still looks distraught.

“I mean it,” she continues, more firmly. “I got pissed at you last time, but—I really thought it was the right thing to do, keeping you away from the Serpent world, after what I had to do to get in. I didn’t want you to have it. Not because I wanted it for myself, but because I didn’t.” She inhales. “I know I haven’t been the best sister all the time. I’m…selfish, and dramatic, and…I pick fights and keep secrets. But that was the one thing I really tried to do for you. I just want you to know that.”

Betty doesn’t know what to say. She still feels the blade of her last conversation with her sister.

“But I still resented you for it,” Polly says a beat later. She sounds on the verge of tears again. “I hate that I did. But you’ve got a shot at whatever you want. You haven’t had to do anything like I’ve done. You—you’re perfect Betty, and it seemed like everything I did just made our parents hate me, and like you more for it. I’ve…fuck, been so mad.”

She is crying now and wipes at her eyes with the back of her palms, the teddy bear now limp in her lap.

It’s only shock that Betty feels—besides the lingering fear of perfectionism, these are thoughts and worries she’s sheltered over the years, but she’d never thought she’d actually get a confession, an admission.

She had craved the defiant truth, knowing it would hurt, but now that she has it, she wishes the pain of it away. “I’m sorry,” she chokes out, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

“No, no,” Polly whimpers, digging her palms harder into her eyes. “That’s not why I’m saying it. I just—I want this to be the last secret we keep, Betty.” Her hands press firmly over her abdomen meaningfully. “I’ve kept so many. It’s all I’ve known how to do. You know that Jason felt like…the only good one I had, for a while, which is why I think I let it go on as long as I did. Why I got sucked in, even though I knew we’d never be anything more.”

She pauses, swallowing. It’s like she can’t help herself, can’t stop any of these words, and goes on. “I still don’t hate him, either,” she admits, her voice small. “I do, and I don’t. It wasn’t his fault, what happened, but he didn’t stop the video either. He didn’t defend me. It embarrassed him, and he was a coward. It wasn’t like people didn’t know about us. We weren’t that good a secret. But that was the thrill, I guess. Pissing people off. And then that backfired.”

Betty doesn’t know why, but she feels relief, at that last part. She’d been holding her breath through Polly’s speech, hating the familiarity of what she was describing, knowing her secret with Jughead, that it wasn’t well kept but thrilling because of it—but it wasn’t to piss anyone off.

That part comforts her—that she isn’t exactly repeated history, isn’t exactly living out her sister’s story. She picked Jughead not from rebellion, not to make anyone else angry, but in spite of the fear of that. She picked him because she liked him; genuinely, liked him.

“But I don’t regret it, either,” Polly announces, which is the part that surprises Betty most, of all the things her sister has said today. “I thought—I thought I did. But it was anger, not regret. But you can’t take something back. You just have to deal with it. I get that now,” she finishes, looking down at her stomach.

Betty runs her tongue along her bottom lip, understanding that this is, though awkward timing, technically probably the best moment to tell her about Jughead. If she doesn’t now, it’ll look worse. A lot worse. “Um. In the interest of not keeping secrets…you were right too,” she says. “That day at Dad’s. One of those boys—we’ve been hooking up. I just guess I should tell you.”

Polly looks at her now, her eyes red. And then she laughs. “God. I just said I _didn’t_ want you to be like me, Betty,” she says, exhaling but smiling. She sighs again, this time more wearily. “I think we’re all doomed to the same story. You, me, and Mom. All the same. Honestly, have fun, Betty. Just don’t get pregnant.”

Her sister says it like a joke, but the truth is, this is the fear Betty’s had stewing; that they’re living out a play in three parts, and she’s just the final, tragic act.

“Polly?”

“Yeah?”

Betty bites her lip, eyes forward. “Didn’t you ever think that you and Jason could actually work out, though? Not even for a minute?”

“No,” Polly replies at once. “Maybe in another universe. But not this one.”

It’s relief again at Betty’s throat—it either means she’s more foolish than her sister ever was, or she and Jughead aren’t Polly and Jason. Both outcomes are equally terrifying, she supposes.

“So I guess you like him, then?” Polly asks, but in a tone that says she knows the answer.

“I do.” She rolls her neck. “But it’s not serious. I’m okay with what it will and won’t be.” There’s silence across the front seat. Betty waits, but Polly says nothing, as if biting her tongue. “What?”

“That’s just sad, is all,” she says finally. “You’re my sister. And I’ve lived some of this. It just can’t end well, this star-crossed stuff. I don’t want you to be with someone who makes you feel ashamed.”

“I’m not ashamed,” Betty says automatically, but—that’s not exactly true, she knows. She hasn’t thought it in such plain terms before, but—hasn’t it been shame? “It’s not him. It’s not me. It’s our world. You know what people would say. What they do.”

“If you’d asked me that three months ago, I would’ve said something different, but—I don’t want to take it back. It changed me. I needed to move out, and felt like I could. Like, what’s the worst that could happen after all this bullshit? It makes me…less pissed, I guess, about a lot of things. Besides, it’s like—how’s that song go? ‘Lightning strikes once, maybe twice’? Who knows, Betty. Maybe your story is different,” Polly murmurs, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead against the glass. She looks exhausted. “Take this exit.”

.

.

.

The waiting room is sterile and bright. There’s the dim echo of a creaky overhead fan and the continuous sound of pens scratching against paper. One by one, a room full of women disappear down a long hallway.

It’s also not terrifying, not wholly unwelcoming. It seems to have given it’s best effort at the opposite, actually—the nurses don’t wear faces of judgment, and there are plain but pleasing pieces of art on every possible space of wall. No pictures of babies or urgencies elsewhere. She’s not sure what she expected—perhaps a horror den of a nunnery, but this space just feels neutral and clean.

Betty looks at her sister. She didn’t bring the teddy bear in, but she holds the clipboard with her information in her lap in the same way she held the old toy. Like a touchstone, something to keep her steady. “Hey, I just want to check. You’ve thought about all of this, right? Options? No one’s pressuring you any which way?”

It’s a vague way to put it, but she hasn’t been very tactful lately. Still, Polly guesses her meaning and smiles wanly. “Yes, Betty. I did think about it. For a few weeks, even—I pictured my life changing. Cribs and diapers and… It almost…” She trails off, and looks pained but resolute. “But like I said. Maybe in another universe. And you’re the only one who knows, so this is my decision.”

Polly continues to rub her fingers between the clipboard’s corner. “He’d be in my life forever. The way things went, I just don’t want that. And I think I want to finish school,” she adds, quietly. “I’m okay with this. I want an abortion.”

Betty stares back at her, nodding. She smiles, and her sister returns it, wider this time.

A woman in blue scrubs stands at the beginning of a long hallway. “Pauline Cooper?” She calls to the room. Polly stands.

“Come in with me,” she says to Betty. “Please.”

There’s no hesitation. The two sisters link arms, and walk together.

.

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.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: [shattered love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PYobwWSbq5s) by part time, [rock your baby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oWYJoIyQq7I) by george mccrae, [ojos del sol](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2wnDyOHPxrE) by y la bamba, and...inevitably, [polly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XVEFsfAENGo) by whitney. 
> 
> so it's been a while!! what began as a series of logistical timing issues turned into some dissatisfaction with the fandom (the plagiarism stuff sapped a lot of motivation, ngl) and....everything kind of got away from me. but we're moving towards some moments i'm looking forward to writing, and hopefully you all are still along for the ride.
> 
> this chapter had a lot of things coming---betty's been the one dictating the rules of their relationship from the beginning, and it was time for that to shift, as things have to become more equal, right? there's going to be a lot of weight given to that in the coming chapters.
> 
> and ultimately, nice baseball jacket or not, this is still jughead, who kept secrets about his family to an extreme degree, especially from the girl he liked. so this was a bit sad and angsty, but---had to come. trust in me!
> 
> as far as polly---she's always such a vessel for plot, but i've done my best to pull some consistency out of her, some touchstones for this story, and it always bothered me on the show that they went out of their way to not say the word abortion. nor was it ever really explored why polly wanted the pregnancy. in this universe, as i said, i decided to show some options and try to give her a character, although i suspect everyone has always hated her more than i do, lmao. 
> 
> anyway. enough of my ramblings. must get better at shorter a/n's. but if you've enjoyed the chapter or the story, your reviews do really mean so much to me. i almost gave up on this fic, but i was still getting comments or tumblr messages about it and---really, truly, that's the thing that got me working on this again. so please, drop me a review if you can. :)


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